


First Impressions

by manic_intent



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: M/M, That fic where Peter is extremely slow on important matters, and he really doesn't want to be babysitting while he's at it, and magic is never anything like Harry Potter, like the Thing that his governor has for him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-19
Updated: 2013-06-29
Packaged: 2017-12-15 11:46:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 54,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/849194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manic_intent/pseuds/manic_intent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You could say that I first got a Clue that my governor maybe, kind of, had a sort of Thing for me when Molly started methodically oversalting all my food and drink. Including the hot cocoas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Rivers of London is a fantastic series. :3 and idk but this couple is seriously shippable. 
> 
> Hopefully this doesn't blow up into another monster fic, seeing as how this fandom is so tiny that I can't find any details/wiki online and had to research by running a search through the books, which I thankfully have in an ebook version -_-;;
> 
> Btw, probably due to a bit of a mistake, Abigail's dad is called Adam in Moon Over Soho and Alfred in Whispers Under Ground, so I'm going with Adam for now.
> 
> Also, for my mental impressions of the characters, @beingevil and I were thinking Richard Armitage for Detective Chief Inspector Nightingale, like so:  
> 
> 
> and Will Smith for Constable Peter Grant, like so:  
> 
> 
> Quick run down: DCI Nightingale is a wizard who occasionally ventures out to do the Felix Castor/John Constantine/Harry Dresden sort of work, except that he does actually work for New Scotland Yard as a DCI, the only one in his division. He takes PC Grant as an apprentice. Grant accidentally teaches his friend, PC Lesley May, magic, after a magical incident left her face melted and horribly deformed. Abigail is a 13 year old little Sierra Leonian girl who seemed off to PC Grant in the books, and at the end of the 3rd book, had gotten a semi agreement where she sort of studies weird magical phenomena, and Nightingale sort of hints that he will take her on as a 3rd apprentice when she's older. Grant objects to the term 'black magician', because he's technically a black magician, and prefers 'ethically challenged magician'. I love this series.

I.

You could say that I first got a Clue that my governor maybe, kind of, had a sort of Thing for me when Molly started methodically oversalting all my food and drink. Including the hot cocoas. But then again, Molly and I have never really seen eye to eye, at least not since Nightingale got shot in the back - an incident which was not in any way my fault - and at that time, I just assumed that I had done yet another thing that had ticked her off.

The second Clue came when Abigail Kamara blew up the lab. With a unicorn. Which, I hold to this day, was _also_ not in any way my fault, but technically my mother's, who had somehow spread the word (and address) about my Witchfinder Headquarters (her words, not mine) and as such, little Abigail Kamara had somehow slipped out of home, taken the train out, then a bus, and had walked right into the Folly, unimpeded by dog or Molly. So much for the resident housekeepers. 

I don't remember very much of what actually happened, except that I had been trying to learn what Nightingale called 'transposition' and what I mentally called a Really Cool Way of Getting a Beer Without Having to Get Up from A Couch, and Abigail had wandered into the lab. 

"Oh," she had said, blinked, and then added, "So that's how you do it," at which point I managed a sharp, "Abi-" and the world had blown up. 

After the few scrambled seconds it took for my brain to register the fact that a) I wasn't dead and b) I wasn't parboiled either, it also noted c) that Nightingale had pushed me against a wall and had wedged himself over me, a full shield keeping the inferno at bay. A surprisingly _sparkly_ inferno. And at its centre, something vaguely horse-shaped, a brilliant white, like the void at a heart of a star, horned and snorting. 

"What in the name of-" Nightingale began, even as the subconscious survivor aspect of my brain kicked into gear and I yelled, "Abigail, turn it off! Now! Or I'll tell your dad!"

There was a heartbeat of nothing, in which I entertained an awful mental image of having to tell Adam Kamara that his daughter had burned herself to death by magical accident, then the unicorn was gone, and Abigail was blinking at us and looking puzzled, as though she couldn't quite figure out why we were so freaked out. 

Nightingale and I started talking again at the same time, which probably didn't help. "Peter, what have you been showing her-" "Abigail, where the h- where the _heck_ did you learn how to do that?"

"I just did," Abigail said carefully, as though she was trying to talk sense to a pair of jabbering idiots. 

"I was trying to summon a beer, not a f-… uh, not a sparkly unicorn… thing!"

"Isn't it the same?" Abigail asked, genuinely confused, which ratcheted her back up to #1 on my People to Watch Extremely Carefully list, at which point Nightingale summoned Molly, instructed her to ply Abigail with biscuits and hot chocolate and Toby, and glowered at me once we were alone.

"When you told me about Abigail you didn't mention that she was a natural talent!"

"I didn't know that she was a natural anything! Is this something that I have to tell her parents about?" Visions of Adam Kamara with a shotgun cautiously crawled over my mental horizon.

Nightingale shot me a withering look, even as he passed his hand over his hair and then pinched at the bridge of her nose. "Peter. What if she creates _Transitus_ again with more of the Igneus, perhaps in her home, or worse, somewhere in public? When you first met her, did you or did you not sense something different about her?"

"Something different, how?"

"As though," Nightingale hesitated, and looked towards the door, "As though there was something a little, well, _off_." He grimaced, as though the act of having to mentally bring his language down to my approximate colloquial level was causing him physical pain.

I opened my mouth to say something about Abigail's impressively unmanageable hair, then closed it. "Uh, maybe. Yeah." 

Nightingale's lips set into a thin line. I knew that look. It meant that there was going to be some sort of creatively cruel and unusual punishment in my future, such as exhaustive Latin studies of extinct flowers. "Call Lesley here."

Five minutes later, Lesley listened to the short explanation with what I felt was not really sufficient surprise, stared at the charred floor and ceiling, blinked at Nightingale when he asked her the same question, and nodded. "I did think that there was something off, but I felt she was…" Here Lesley hesitated and looking awkwardly over to me, "I felt maybe that she had problems at home. Some of the kids from troubled homes feel 'off' to me. Maybe that's also what Peter felt."

I tried to convey gratitude to Lesley for the save without changing my facial expression. Nightingale relaxed, a little reluctantly, and exhaled loudly. "I will have to make a few calls. Watch Abigail very closely until I return, and for the love of everything sacred, do _not_ demonstrate any more magic in her presence. Ever."

Lesley and I wisely decided not to mention the werelight that Lesley had made to feed the graffiti ghost, and made a strategic retreat to the lounge room, where naturally, we found that Abigail had filled the entire room with werelights, like little stars, some blinking, some changing colours, all of them perfectly steady. Molly was sitting in the centre of the room, entranced, hissing and clapping her hands in delight, while Toby ran little circles around them both, yapping. 

Not even Lesley had that much control. "If you're any more envious than you are now, you're going to implode," I told her.

She rolled her eyes at me and advanced first. "Abigail, turn that off, please."

Abigail's head whipped around, then all the lights winked out. "Sorry," she mumbled, and rummaged in her pack, holding out the moleskine book that I had given her. "Am I in trouble? It's just that, I finished this book yesterday, and I thought that I could head out here and surprise Peter with it."

Now I felt both envious _and_ a jerk. Molly shot me an accusing glance before melting away, and even Toby barked as I gingerly took the book from her. "Okay, um, firstly," I cleared my throat, looked to Lesley for support that never came, and continued, "You can't practice magic for very long. Not more than five minutes a day. Ever."

"Really?" Abigail asked, openly puzzled. "Why? I've done it for hours at a go, me. It 'ent hard."

Lesley was definitely going to implode soon. "Okay. Well. Er. You've got to stop for now," I said desperately, "And there'll be a nice doctor that we'll be meeting soon who'll be wanting to check on your brain. Just, er, stay here, okay?"

Thankfully, I didn't have to mention any of this to Nightingale when I popped out to look for him, as he was already hurrying back towards us. Dr Walid, unsettlingly enough, was nearly in paroxysms of delight. "A Merlin! In our generation!" he kept whispering to Nightingale, whose face had been frozen in an interesting rictus ever since he had finished his phone call and packed us all off to the UCH. It was something like a cross between horror and astonishment, and if he kept it up, was probably going to freeze in place. 

Abigail's brain was fine, at which point, Lesley 'fessed up to the werelight and what we had seen in the lounge room. Traitor. Nightingale eyed me severely. "You are really remarkably unsubtle." 

I decided not to mention that it was technically Lesley's werelight, and kept an injured silence all the way back to the Folly, at which point I was tasked with having to call the Kamara family and explain why Abigail was not going home, perhaps not ever, and certainly not in the near future.

Being somewhat cowardly where the Elder Kamara was involved, I left out the last bit, particularly since it was hard enough trying to explain to Mr Kamara in a non-creepy way that Abigail was only having to stay in the Folly because my much older white male boss was interested in her. In the end, I took the easy way out and told him it was police business, which probably didn't help, on hindsight, because the Kamaras showed up within the next two hours, bristling with parental aggression and concern. 

Lesley and I threw Nightingale to the wolves and retreated to the lounge room to keep Abigail company while he had some sort of Talk with the Kamaras. I wasn't sure what Nightingale was going to say. 'Sorry, but your daughter is a natural witch'? It didn't really bear thinking about. 

I re-explained what had happened in the lab in greater detail to Lesley, and at the point where I described Nightingale's reaction, she sniffed loudly through her mask. "Of course he did."

"Of course he did what?"

Lesley eyed me for a long moment, as though trying to figure out whether I was taking the piss, and then said, very slowly, "Peter, remember that time in the hospital when you woke up and I told you about Nightingale's visit?"

"Yes?" 

"… Never mind." Lesley rolled her eyes again, and actually shared a Look with Abigail, of all people. I glared at them, and was about to say something hopefully sharp and condescending when Nightingale poked his head into the room, looking suspicious, as though he had been expecting to catch us teaching Abigail _Impello_ or something.

"Abigail. Your parents would like to speak to you for a while."

Abigail shot me an anxious look, and on impulse I leaned over to squeeze her hand. "It can't be as bad as my parents," I told her, probably lying through my teeth, seeing as my Dad had taken magic in his 'medicine'-addicted stride and my Mum had misinterpreted my new vocation entirely, but Abigail nodded, scuffed her shoes on the ancient carpet, and toddled off with the air of a condemned prisoner. 

When she was gone, Nightingale folded his arms. "She'll be living with us for a while."

"Really?" I asked, before I could help myself, and hastily added, "I mean, won't her parents object?"

"They did, strenuously. But I told them that they could visit or stay over whenever they liked, and besides, that you were staying here as well, and would be taking every measure to ensure Miss Kamara's safety." If Nightingale's eyes could shoot lasers, they probably would have at that point. "I've invited them to stay for dinner, just so that they can see that she will be properly cared for."

This was not in any way a logical step, and I could tell by Lesley's quick blinking that she was probably as appalled as I was. For someone so smart and old, Nightingale was surprisingly dense sometimes. However, by some miracle, Molly did not deliver any culinary surprises at dinner - perhaps retreating into her comfort zone at the unexpected stress of having to cater for surprise guests - and Abigail at least seemed to find the lava-hot steak and liver pie delicious. I stared at her with suspicion, but I think nobody noticed.

There were tears and motherly wailing after dinner when the parental units had to go home, and much silent pointed looks by Adam Kamara at yours truly, and it was only after every inch of possible familial melodrama had been squeezed to death did the Kamaras pack off, promising to return in the morning with Abigail's things. Nightingale looked so relieved that it would have been hilarious, if that expression wasn't probably reflected on my face. 

Solemnly, Abigail noted, "Sorry." 

"We're going to find you a room," Nightingale said firmly, began to walk to the staircase, stopped, looked indecisive, then glanced over to Lesley. "If you could make Abigail feel at home? Molly should have cleaned out one of the upper rooms by now - it should be the one next to yours."

Lesley shot me a significant glance, but being unable for the most part to unravel feminine subtext, it was totally lost on me as she took Abigail by the hand and led her upstairs. 

"Do I want to know what a Merlin is? I'm thinking first off that you're not talking about the big-eared Colin Morgan sort." 

Nightingale had developed a default reaction to pop culture references that he had never heard of: he pretended not to have heard them. Which meant that some days we conducted entire conversations which were fully one sided. He assigned me reading material and added, "Tomorrow I will have to see the Commissioner first thing in the morning. I trust that you will, again, not show Abigail any sort of magic, and encourage her strongly not to try anything else on her own?"

"You're avoiding her parents," I concluded, incredulous, and Nightingale had the grace to seem a little shamefaced before he slunk off. So much for cherishing and protecting his apprentice, or whatever it was.

II.

The morning managed to be even more horrific than the night, because the Kamaras arrived in time for breakfast, armed with my parents, being of the popular Sierra Leonian belief that the thing that a well-brought-up Sierra Leonian boy was most afraid of was his mama. Sadly, this was a belief that had some justification.

However, being Sierra Leonian myself, I had already foreseen this counter attack and was prepared for it. I had spent a couple of hours during the night nosing around the house for props, and another half an hour wheedling and begging until Molly finally helped me move one of my secret weapons into the drawing room next to the room we normally took breakfast.

And so it was that on their way in, the invading force lost one of its members just before they burst into the breakfast room, when Dad took one look at the gold and mother-of-pearl inlaid antique Bechstein and approached it with the reverence of a man who had just found religion. By the time the Kamaras plus my mum arrived in the breakfast room, the first lines of the Duke's 'Solitude' had started to play. Determination fought bliss on my mum's face, and after a brief struggle, the latter won out. 

I tried not to seem too relieved. 

It was a good morning - by the time Dad lost the line, even the Kamaras had cooled down, and thankfully, breakfast today was as English as possible without inviting in the Queen. Abigail had looked up from a plate stuffed full of kippers, sausages, eggs, toast and bacon with the wide-eyed innocent surprise of a girl who was having a grand time and was not afraid to enjoy every minute of it if it was the last thing she ever did.

Still, Mrs Kamara was here on a mission, and wasn't fully swayed by jazz. She started by asking Abigail a series of leading questions that a barrister would have been proud of, to which Abigail offered a series of ambiguous answers that any petty criminal would have been proud of. She was clearly an old hand at handling her parents, and I'm not ashamed to say that Lesley and I let a little girl do all the heavy lifting.

After all, instead of being terrified at suddenly having to stay in a big and gloomy old house with no internet and telly that had a creepy lady as a maid, Abigail had been positively thrilled about the experience so far. This made me add another point in my mental tally of Weird next to Abigail's name in my list.

Mrs Kamara, unfortunately, not only had the mind of a lawyer but the patience of one, and eventually, Abigail cracked. "I'm going to be safe here, Mum," she declared, sticking out her lower lip stubbornly. "You know Peter." 

"Yes, dear-"

"And Peter's Mum and Dad know Lesley."

"Of course, dear, but," Mrs Kamara eyed me firmly, "I know that Mr Nightingale is your boss, Peter, but really, that young woman who's his maid-"

Here it came. I nearly closed my eyes, but sheer resigned fascination at what Mrs Kamara was going to say next stapled my eyelids in place. Before I could say anything, though, Abigail stabbed a piece of toast with a fork. "Oh, you dunt have to worry about Mr Nightingale, Mum. He's gay." 

Lesley made a choking sound, even as Adam blinked rapidly. Mrs Kamara and my Mum assumed identical, frozen expressions, then both of them looked right at me.

"What?" I asked, frowning.

"Is this why you never bring any of your girlfriends home?" Mum asked carefully, at which point Lesley had a laughing fit and had to turn her masked face around to have a glass of water through a straw. She usually didn't show at breakfast, but she had decided to come down today as a show of strength, even if she didn't eat anything, which was probably the only thing that saved her from certain death.

"I hate all of you," I told Lesley later, when both sets of parental units had finally cleared off, although we had to pry my dad off the piano. 

"S'true," Abigail said, matter-of-fact.

"You owe me a very big favour, young lady, seeing as I just took one for the team."

"When I called the unicorn," Abigail told Lesley smugly, "Mr Nightingale hugged Peter, like in the movies."

"Oh for God's sake," I growled, in what was hopefully a hyper-masculine manner, "I'm going to take Toby for a walk."

III.

Unfortunately, this one sided game of gay chicken went on, damn Lesley. Put two girls and a guy together, and the girls will find something to torment the guy with. Birds of a feather, and all that. Nightingale returned from the Commissioner's office late in the afternoon, indicating that he had in fact probably loitered around in town until he was sure that the coast was clear before coming home to pick up Abigail to be sworn in by the Commissioner.

Lesley and I went along, just out of sheer curiosity, just to see if it was too much for the old man after all. Three apprentices sworn in within a year, and one of them a thirteen-year-old. Surely Nightingale had just gone far, far over whatever the Commissioner saw as propriety. 

"I didn't get a badge," Abigail told me reproachfully later, on the way home. Disappointingly, there had been no implosion: the Commissioner had been weirdly quiet about it all.

"That's because you're not in the police," I retorted. "You haven't even passed your A's."

"Do I still have to go to normal school?" Abigail asked Nightingale mulishly. "The people in Harry Potter dint." 

"'Didn't'," Nightingale corrected absently, and in the rearview mirror, I could see Abigail roll her eyes. Attagirl. "Yes, you will still have to go to school. We'll be transferring you to a good one fairly close by."

As I had thought, this alarmed Abigail far more than having to live in the Folly would ever do. "Move schools! To where?"

"South Hampstead High, I presume," Nightingale said, with the vague interest of someone to whom high school had possibly never happened, "The Commissioner recommended it."

This only escalated Abigail's panic. "Fuck me, I ent going to that school!" 

"Language, young lady," Nightingale snapped, appalled, and I looked beseechingly over at Lesley, whose shoulders were shaking. Since another breakdown wasn't going to help the situation, I stared pointedly at her until she calmed down.

"If you want to study magic, you're going to have to finish your A's," Lesley said calmly, "Remember that deal you made with Peter over the Latin."

Abigail bit her lip but calmed down a little. "I'm still getting taught magic now, ent I?" she asked finally, "Do I still have to get that GCSE in Latin?"

Nightingale shot me a suspicious glance that I returned as innocently as I could, but thankfully, he deigned to back Lesley up. "Yes, Abigail, you do. Greek and Arabic would help as well." 

Abigail had assumed the look of a little girl struggling with a painful decision, then she deflated. "All right, but nobody's going to like me there. It's going to be horrible." 

"The personal opinions of other thirteen year olds should not matter to you, child," Nightingale said, which was not really a good thing to say to any thirteen year old whom you didn't want to end up as a serial killer, "You have a gift."

Thankfully, this didn't comfort Abigail in the least. "But I can't show them magic?"

"No. No showing magic to people who aren't in this car. Not even your parents."

"What about Molly?"

Nightingale hesitated only briefly. "Molly is allowed."

"And the Commissioner? He was nice."

Lesley's shoulders were shaking again, and I shot her a warning look, even as Nightingale said, in a resigned tone, "The Commissioner is fine."

"And Doctor Walid?" 

This time, Nightingale shot the little girl a glance, but she returned it innocently. Clearly having no practice at all in dealing with little devils of the trolling kind, he sighed and turned his attention back to the road. "Doctor Walid is fine as well."

"What if it's an emergency?"

"What sort of emergency?"

"Kids push kids around. Especially if they're different." 

"Never use magic on other people if you can ever help it. And never, ever use it on children," Nightingale said in a voice so severe that Abigail fell silent, and was subdued even when led out of the Jag. Lesley shot me a significant glance as she led Abigail away for a cup of cocoa, and I tried an eyeroll, but she raised an eyebrow and I caved. FML.

"It's going to be a stressful transfer," I decided to try approaching the problem from a subtle angle.

Nightingale shot me an unimpressed look. "Have you done your reading?"

"All it did was tell me that she's a natural at magic," I pointed out, "Whatever that is. And possibly, that she should avoid woodland nymphos."

" _Nymphs_ ," Nightingale corrected sharply, then he sighed, and looked suddenly very tired. "I understand it'll be hard on her, Peter, but she'll have to understand that it's going to be hard on everyone else, as well."

"Meaning us?"

"Meaning everyone within London, and probably a few kilometres out of it, as well, if she doesn't immediately learn self control."

"Oh." That brought the problem into a totally new perspective. "She's that good? Are you that good?"

Nightingale stared at me for a long moment, and then, a little to my surprise, he began to laugh ruefully. "I do not know, Peter. Personally, I do not wish to know. I am certainly not a natural, though." 

"So if she can learn any spell, just by looking at it, and then improve on it perfectly on the go," I said out aloud, "Isn't that going to attract attention from your people?"

" _Our_ people," Nightingale amended, "And certainly. We may have some guests over the next few weeks. Postmartin and Walid will put the word out."

"And so," I said, with a sinking feeling, "Won't this attract the attention of the wrong sort of people too? Like ethically challenged practitioners?"

Nightingale looked briefly indecisive, then he sighed. "I suppose I will have to teach her some defensive magic. And I will try to ease her into her new life more gently."

"This isn't going to be 'fourth level stuff that you will learn maybe after ten years of practice if you are lucky', is it?" I asked suspiciously. 

Nightingale favored me with a serene look. "If you only applied yourself, Peter, you would be progressing far more adroitly than you are now."

"Nobody uses that word in normal conversation," I retorted, which perhaps was a bit childish, and added, "Sir," in case Nightingale was in a Mood and I got more esoteric Latin homework for my trouble.

Instead of revenge, however, Nightingale merely smiled at me, and it was a weird smile - there was something unnervingly off about it all. "Good night, Peter," he said finally, and I couldn't help but think that he was retreating when he went up the stairs. 

Because I'm a glutton for punishment, I told Lesley about it in the carriage house later, and Abigail, who was by now attached to Lesley by the hip, said pertly, "You're not very clever. I thought you were clever."

"Aren't you meant to be in bed?" I asked irritably. 

"Me and Lesley are watching Harry Potter," Abigail pointed at the telly, which was showing an advertisement about car insurance. "Have you talked to your boss about Harry Potter?" she asked hopefully. "Maybe this place could be more like Harry Potter. With Quidditch and Sorting Hats. I want to be in Gryffindor."

"Yes I have, and no it will not," I crossed my arms. "And besides, if this place was anything like Harry Potter, it'll be way more of a Ravenclaw joint than you'll ever want it to be, trust me." 

"Aw," Abigail looked visibly disappointed. "I wanted a broomstick."

"Technically there's a spell which you can use to lift things up that you can use on a broomstick," I said reasonably, "But it isn't going to be as comfortable as going about in that Jag."

"True." Losing interest, Abigail turned her attention back to the telly when the commercial break was over, and I arched an eyebrow at Lesley. She typed something on her phone and held it up. HE LIKES YOU. IDIOT!!

I grabbed her phone. IM THE 1ST APPRENTX. OBV.

Lesley looked briefly as though she was thinking between choking me to death with her phone or strangling me, and the revelation broke over me with all the unpleasantness of a cold shower. Seeing it on my face, Lesley snatched her phone back. 1ST IMPRESSIONS ALWAYS BEST, she typed, echoing one of our Academy teachers, and in case I didn't remember, which I did, she added, SLIGHTL ETHNIC BF. 

God damn.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There you go. Character exposition, for anyone trying this fic who hasn't read all three books first. :3

IV.

Let me step back for a minute.

When I first met Detective Chief Inspector Thomas Nightingale, I had been a lowly police padawan whom had just found out that the all knowing Inspector Neblett Police Sorting Hat had sorted me into the Case Progression Unit, which was pretty much a glorified name for Administrative Drone Hive. 

CPUs were pretty much just ambulatory versions of their computer counterparts of the same acronyms, and as such, I had been pretty disappointed, to say the least. Not to mention that my friend Lesley May had been sorted into the much-coveted Murder Team, being seen by Neblett as a 'proper thief-taker' and yours truly as 'I'm not sure what you are'. 

So I tried to improve my lot by inching in on a murder case, being about one Mysteriously Beheaded Gent, and had ended up talking to a ghost whom I originally thought was a Witness B, but actually turned out to be Murderer A. It was a case that ended up with gorgeous, blue-eyed, blonde PC Lesley May's face horrifically collapsing and salient tourist attractions in London burning down, the former serving to continue to give me guilt trips and nightmares, the latter fact sticking to my career like a parasitic limpet. 

Also, I went from being a future CPU drone into becoming part of Nightingale's Economic and Specialist Crime unit, which, until me, had a complement of one - DCI Nightingale, who, as far as I could tell, is a backwards ageing immortal wizard older than Methuselah. 

I'm exaggerating. But only by a little. Also, Lesley refers to him behind his back as 'Voldemort' whenever she's pissed off at him.

As Nightingale's apprentice I had to live at his place, which was known as the Folly - a rambling old place at Russell Square frozen in the dark ages of technology, which was just as well, seeing as technology tended to explode around magic unless it wasn't plugged up to a power source. I did set up one of the old carriage houses for cable, once I was told that nothing could be run into the house proper, something about magical invisible forcefields, so there _was_ a bit of the Folly that's modern and civilised and has takeout pizza. 

And then I accidentally taught Lesley magic, which I didn't know could happen since I hadn't told her anything about visualising _forma_. And then she accidentally taught Abigail magic. Lord knows who Abigail was going to accidentally teach magic to, at this rate to top it off - the Queen Mother? Nightingale probably wouldn't survive the shock.

Which brings me to First Impressions. The first time I met Nightingale, while trying to find Witness B, he had been watching me from a cafe opposite the church portico, and at that time, I had thought that he was quite possibly a rich, well-dressed older guy who batted for the same side and who only needed a younger, slightly ethnic boyfriend to complete a portrait of cliche. 

So.

Come to think of it, I had never really questioned why Nightingale had decided to come up to talk to me. It had only been when I mentioned that I was looking for a ghost that he had turned all businesslike. After all, that bit of the church, at that time of the night, was traditionally used by like-minded men to meet up to freeze their arses off in the name of like-minded activities. 

The more I thought of it, the more my brain felt as though it was rebelling, so I walked our resident useless Ghost Hunter Dog, the rat-like Toby, until I sat down at a park bench and it threw itself across my feet, panting. 

"You have it good," I told him soberly. "They nip off your balls when you're a pup and you don't ever have to think about this kinda shit." 

Toby barked in what I presumed was assent. His master had been the Beheaded Gent, and we had picked him up during the case, originally out of curiosity and later because Molly seemed to take to the smelly thing. 

I couldn't keep away from the Folly for long, though, if only because Lesley had started using the cable connection to download _How I Met Your Mother_ , and was veering dangerously close to the cap. I got home just in time to shoo her off the computer. Toby nestled quickly up to Abigail on the couch, and she gave him one of her potato chips. Another Harry Potter movie was on, and I shot Abigail a pointed look which I hoped conveyed the fact that no amount of Harry Potter was going to make the Folly like Hogwarts, but I think that it didn't take.

"Why do I have to learn Latin?" Abigail asked, during the commercial break. "I dunt need it to cast spells."

This was a very good point, but far be it for me to deviate from Nightingale's strict teaching progression. "Because most of the books about magic are in Latin, and eventually, you're going to help us with our work. It's not all about casting spells, kid," I said mildly, "You're going to have to do your share of the research."

"Like in Supernatural?" At my raised eyebrow, Abigail explained, "Mum said that you were a witchfinder."

Lesley made a suspicious snorting sound, but I fixed the expression on my face. "Exactly. So learn your Latin. Fast."

"I bet you could feed it through Google. Dean and Sam Winchester use Google." 

"I bet you could," I said firmly, hoping that my face in no way indicated that I had done this myself on many a time, "But you lose the magic when you do that, and what the heck are you doing watching Supernatural? It's not a show for kids." 

Lesley made a louder snorting sound, and I glowered at her, but thankfully, Abigail seemed to buy that crock of bullshit. "Oh. Okay."

I relaxed. Maybe this wasn't going to be too hard after all.

V.

My newfound resolve to Keep Calm and Carry On in what seemed to be the Second Coming of the Messiah, Pint-sized Afro Girl edition, waned somewhat when Nightingale showed up to our training session still reverently reading Abigail's moleskine, as though it held the secrets to the universe.

I had flipped through it before handing it to him, and personally I hadn't thought very much of it at the time, other than wondering whether half of what had happened in the book had actually happened. Like the talking animals.

"'Tell your friends that they're on the wrong side of the river'," Nightingale mused, and glanced over at me. "Tyburn?"

"I guess," I shrugged. Who else could it be? The talking fox business hadn't really seemed like Tyburn's style, but what did I know. Maybe the Rivers had a wholly different way of approaching little kids. "Back to Transitus?"

"In your time," Nightingale said distractedly, which was annoying on a weird level. I hadn't gotten this way when he had taken Lesley in, after all. But then again, Lesley was my age, and an old friend, and… hell. I was _not_ getting remotely jealous over a thirteen year old kid. 

After five minutes of beer bottles failing to re-materialize in my hand, Nightingale asked, "Have you spoken to any of the Rivers about this?"

"No? I thought we've agreed that it was Tyburn."

"If Tyburn wished to threaten us," Nightingale noted mildly, "She would not have used a talking fox to speak to a little girl, Peter. And the Rivers are very specific in terms of their grievances. She has had no dealings with Lesley."

"Should I be worried?" I asked doubtfully, "I really don't think that I'm going to be able to run down this here talking fox, boss."

Nightingale actually cracked a faint smile at that. "It felt like a warning rather than a threat," he decided finally. "What worries me is that it was conveyed to Abigail rather than to any of the rest of us."

Maybe someone else knew about Abigail's Secret Messiah schtick before us. The thought hung heavy and unsaid in the air, and I grimaced. "Is it really a good idea allowing her to go to school? I mean, she could be home-schooled. I'm sure Walid and maybe Postmartin would have been happy to help."

"The problem with Merlins," Nightingale closed the moleskine with a snap, "Is that eventually, magic becomes easier for them than dealing with people. The key is to have them get used to people - especially people outside of our people - as well as get used to magic. Safely."

"Or they'll run off with nymphs and never come back?"

"Or go bl… ah, become ethically challenged," Nightingale corrected himself. "And perhaps you can see how much of a problem that might be."

I briefly imagined a giant horde of sparkly unicorns burning down London. It wasn't as funny as I thought it would be. "Got you, boss." 

"Postmartin is going to make some arrangements, at any rate," Nightingale allowed. "We'll be arranging to have some new teachers transferred into the school. They'll watch her."

"These being your friends who have broken their staffs?"

" _Staves_ , Peter. The plural is 'staves'. And yes." 

Somehow, I couldn't see that ending very well, but I said nothing. It was Nightingale's call, anyway.

On one hand, having Abigail summarily transferred to one of the best schools in the country to study free of charge had done wonders for relations with the parental units, and the Kamaras had been settling well. On the other hand, unsurprisingly, school did turn out to be horrible for Abigail after all. Lesley and I weren't yet old enough to have our memories of the various cruelties of high school tinted over with good memories, and until I had dropped into my growth spurt and bulked up, school had seriously sucked. _And_ I had been going to school in Kentish Town, where I had already more or less known most of the kids in my class since we had been born. 

"It'll get better," Lesley was trying to comfort Abigail in the carriage house, while Molly fussed about agitatedly and had already tried to present Abigail with a third cup of hot cocoa and a miniature mountain of biscuits. Somehow, she had fixated on this as the only thing that little girls ate in between meals. If Abigail ever developed diabetes, it was going to be Nightingale's fault. 

"It's not going to get better," Abigail wailed, hugging Lesley.

"No, it's not," I agreed, sitting down next to Abigail. Lesley and Molly shot me identical looks of irritation, but I ignored them, and pulled out two moleskine journals, one black, one red. "People can be horrible, Abigail. Do you know what evil magicians are like?"

She actually thought this over for a while, then ventured a guess, "They hurt people? I heard Mum talking about it once when Dad brought you up. She said it had to be serious if the Filth included witchfinders." 

I wasn't very fond of the colloquial term for the police, but I kept my tone reasonable. "Yeah, Abigail, they hurt people. And you know what? You're going to have to learn to see the difference between people who are merely mean and people who are batshit crazy. You see, if you want to grow up to help us, you're going to end up in the police too. So think of this," I held up the black book, "As studying magic, and this," I held up the red book, "As studying people." 

Abigail stared at me in confusion, but Lesley had already cottoned on to my idea. "We want you to keep writing about unusual things that you find in the black book," she said soothingly, "And we want you to write about unusual things about your classmates in the red book. Write down stuff that you see. And don't bring the red book to school." 

"And don't break into their lockers or go through their things," I added, just in case. "You're going to be training your, uh, observation skills. And at the end of the month, we'll go through your findings, and if you really, really think anyone is batshit crazy, we'll have them checked out. All right?"

This was probably an abuse of police power, even if it was a lie, but Abigail nodded, clearly cheered. "All right." 

"But you have to be absolutely, absolutely sure," Lesley shot me a meaningful glance, "Because when you become one of us, you can't make mistakes." 

"Is that what happened? To your face," Abigail asked. "A mistake?"

Lesley froze, but this one was up to me. "Yeah, Abigail. It was my mistake. You see what I mean now? If you make mistakes, it's not just you who can get hurt." 

Molly actually gave me a blank glance when she led Abigail out of the carriage house to take her back to bed, and Lesley eyed me soberly. "This wasn't your fault, Peter."

"I know. But… yeah. I know." I managed a forced smile. "I had to tell that kid _something_." 

"Yeah." Lesley reached over and squeezed my hand. "That was some quick talking back there."

"Kids can smell bullshit a mile off. The key is to figuring out how to make it smell good."

VI.

Abigail seemed to settle in, and soon Lesley and I had our own problems. People were exploding in East London - or, at least, imploding, no explosives involved, seemingly random string of victims. Thankfully, or perhaps horribly, since it was just a person imploding, all that really happened to any passers by within range was a great deal of permanent mental scarring.

Even Detective Chief Inspector Seawoll, Murder Team, couldn't wish the weird away from this one, but he had settled for only talking to Lesley about it, which meant that anything that needed to get to me or Nightingale had to go through a really childish sort of Chinese Whisper system. 

We had no real leads after three weeks, and Seawoll was breathing down our necks, which was why I was already low on sleep and irritable when I crawled up early in the morning to drive Abigail to school. It didn't help that I could clearly see that something in her backpack was moving.

"You can't take Toby to school, Abigail," I told her firmly, only for Toby, hearing his name, to rush out from the kitchen and bark excitedly. I froze, stared at Abigail, and added, "All right. What's in your bag."

"It's for show and tell," Abigail said, and stuck out her lower lip.

"It's not rats, is it?" 

"No," Abigail looked briefly disgusted, then her expression went blank, as though she had just realized that she really should have admitted to rats. 

I rubbed my hand over my face and groaned. "All right. Give it here. Now, Abigail."

Reluctantly, she handed over her backpack, which was surprisingly light. I unzipped the top, and nearly dropped it. "Holy fuck!" 

An extremely ugly feathery lizard poked its head out of the bag. It had black, glossy feathers, very sharp, serrated teeth, and immediately made a spirited play for freedom by attempting to claw out my eyeballs. Thankfully, I grabbed it by the neck and managed to pin the squirming, hissing thing on the ground, where Toby ran circles around us, barking wildly, then snapping ineffectively at it as it broke free and scuttled over to Abigail. It climbed up her jacket and perched on her shoulder, where it flared all four of its wings and hissed at me like a snake.

"You said a bad word," Abigail said mildly, clearly unconcerned that she had the Monster Chicken from Hell on her shoulder.

"What… I don't even… all right," I took in a deep breath. "What the hell, Abby."

"This wasn't doing magic in front of my classmates," Abigail said reasonably. "I did it in the basement. Nobody believed me in school when I said that dinosaurs have feathers."

"I don't care what your classmates believe," I said urgently, "You're going to put that back before Nightingale wakes up, and we _all_ get into serious trouble."

From the way Abigail's gaze turned briefly behind me, I knew that unfortunately, trouble had already woken up, and it was furious. "Abigail, what did I tell you about magic?" 

Thankfully, Abigail didn't decide at this moment to bring up the loophole in Nightingale's restrictions. "M'sorry," she said. "I won't do it again."

"This is a serious matter," Nightingale snapped, "You can't experiment with magic without supervision, child. What if whatever you had pulled from the ether had attacked you?"

"I said I was sorry," Abigail repeated, her face going pale. 

"And I do not think that you _understand_. What if you had pulled in one of the draconis? You would not have been the only one dead - the entire city of London would be on fire-"

"I think she gets it, sir," I interrupted, but this only made Nightingale round on me.

"And you, Peter. Would you have told me about that," Nightingale pointed at Monster Chicken, "If I had _not_ woken up? Do you understand the consequences of just 'putting it back', now that this creature has been contaminated by our world?" 

"Um," I said intelligently, blinking, "No sir."

"Exactly! You don't _think_. The both of you don't. Do you understand how much of a danger that is? To everyone?"

"I said that I was sorry!" Abigail cried, pushed Monster Chicken into my hands, and rushed off outside. 

I glared at Nightingale, and shoved the dinosaur thing into his hands with as little ceremony as possible. "Good move, _sir_." Grabbing her backpack, I ran out, only to find that Abigail had thankfully not run off over the grounds but was sitting in the beat up old Ford in the passenger seat, her head in her hands.

I started up the car, and when we were out and she had stopped sobbing, I said, mildly, "You know, it would have been cooler if you had brought in a baby T-Rex."

"It would have eaten everyone," Abigail said quietly, though she managed a watery grin. "And I really was going to put it back, after school."

"But your class would have freaked out and then the police would have had to be called in." 

"No, it was Mr Mason's class," Abigail eyed me significantly, and when I stared at her, she frowned. "He's a, you know. One of you guys. Us." 

"Really? How did you know?"

"I can tell. He's a new teacher, too. Came to the school just before I got in. He's nice."

Nightingale _had_ said that there were going to be new teachers. "Okay, so maybe he wouldn't have freaked out," I allowed, "But what about the Muggles? Would this be something Harry Potter would have done?"

"He didn't have to go to _normal_ school," Abigail said mulishly, and was quiet all the way until I pulled up in front of the red brick building. "I really am sorry, Peter," she said then, earnestly. "I really am. I just didn't know what else to bring that wouldn't be stupid. Or old. I tried, too. Molly helped me look around the house. So I thought, maybe a really small dinosaur wouldn't hurt. Peggy's very friendly, really. I'm sorry. I won't do it again, I promise." 

I was probably going to regret this, but what the hell. It wasn't as though I hadn't done far more career damaging things to date, involving burning down public sites and crashing ambulances. I handed over my warrant card. "I'm gonna need this back, okay?"

"Okay." Abigail seemed to cheer up. "I'll have one someday, right?"

"Right," I agreed. "But maybe you should, just a suggestion, stop stressing Nightingale out. He's my boss, after all. And Lesley's. And technically, yours." 

"I don't like him."

Somehow, this managed to annoy me more than the Monster Chicken. Probably shock. "He's a good man. Good cop, too."

"Okay," Abigail said, in a tone that clearly indicated that she was unconvinced but was going to try to take it on faith.

"I'll see you later," I squeezed her hand. "Have a good day, all right?"

"All right."

Surprisingly enough, Nightingale was still in the foyer when I got back, although the Monster Chicken was nowhere to be seen, and he had changed out of his bathrobe into a suit. "You sent it back?" I asked, blinking. "Cauterised?" 

"It isn't safe to send it back, even if I knew where or _when_ it was plucked from," Nightingale said neutrally. "The thing's in the kitchen with Molly, being fed. It's unused to the weather and food here and probably won't last long." From Nightingale's unenthusiastic tone, I could tell that _he_ wasn't expecting this prediction to be worth very much. 

"The thing's name is Peggy," I offered. "Abigail's really sorry about it, by the way."

Nightingale looked briefly indecisive, then he exhaled. "When I heard you, I thought that whatever she had done must have hurt you," he said finally. "I shouldn't have lost my temper."

I said nothing. Junior officers really don't enjoy it when senior officers do any sort of soul searching in front of them outside of a pub capacity. It's unsettling. However, Nightingale seemed to be waiting for a response, so I tried, "Is that all, sir?"

He winced. "Peter, are you angry with me?"

If I had thought the soul searching was unsettling before, the plaintive note to _this_ question was worse. Way worse. Surely I had been angry at Nightingale before, right? At some point? I tried to think back, and came up with a blank. Okay then-

"No sir. But Abigail is."

"I know." Nightingale said ruefully. "I'll apologize to her, separately." 

"Okay, um. I'm going to, er, wake Lesley up," I said, very intelligently, and beat a retreat before anything even weirder happened. 

Naturally, Lesley wanted to see the dinosaur before we went to work, and we found the horrible thing in the kitchen, competing with Toby for scraps of raw meat. Gross. 

"It's called Peggy, huh?" Before I could warn her, Lesley was petting the goddamned thing. Molly glanced at me, and I shrugged - she scooted away, leaving the bowl of meat on the table. I put it on the ground, and Toby dove for it. Peggy let out a squawk and swooped down, also gorging itself. I figured that if it didn't die of diseases, it would probably die of indigestion, and looked back over to Lesley. 

"God damn," she said finally. "Now I'm jealous."

"Yeah? What would _you_ have pulled out of the 'ether'?"

"A really good BLT," Lesley admitted, which showed that all her accusations that I was a shallow person was really pot calling kettle. "How's your beer summoning going?"

"I think in a week or two I can figure out how to stop it from melting into goop once it gets to me. I'm not sure why Nightingale wanted me to practice with my beer stash instead of with apples."

"He probably thought that it would make you concentrate better," Lesley said tartly, who had gotten apples to practice with, then she sobered up. "How's, well. With Nightingale. Is it weird?"

"It's weird. But that," I pointed at Peggy, "Is weirder."

"If it's much comfort," Lesley noted uncertainly. "I really don't think anything will happen, okay?"

I knew that already. Nightingale had a very complicated understanding of what was 'proper' and 'improper', after all, and this was wildly in the latter category even for normal people. Besides, until Lesley had smacked me in the face with it, everything had flown comfortably under my radar. Unfortunately, what had been seen cannot be unseen, but this was a good substitute. I told myself that I was relieved.

"Nothing's going to happen," I told Lesley confidently, "And if we don't get to Kensington soon, Seawoll is going to bust our arses." 

As it so happened, my predictions weren't worth much of a damn either.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... yep, it's blowing out of proportion.

VII.

Whatever the Fix was, it had set in by dinner, seeing as Peggy was perched on the back of Abigail's chair, its evil eyes fixed on the steak. It didn't, however, shit over the carpet or dive straight into the food, which gave it better manners than half the colourful people I've met during my rounds as a PC.

"Another vic," Lesley was telling Nightingale. "No _vestigium_ either. But it can't be natural. We combed the area. All of them."

"Still no sign of goblin boy," I added sourly. 

It would have been easier to ask one of the Rivers for help - if part of Tyburn's deal during the last time I had accidentally endangered both Ash and Beverley had been that I could never ask them for that sort of help ever again. As such, I tried to look for the next best thing, Zach, a half goblin miscreant of dubious morals, but he had gone to ground after the matter of the Quiet People, and not even Nightingale's sources had been able to find him. 

"I'll have a look at the next one," Nightingale said, sounding distracted again, and Lesley shot me a pointed stare. I shrugged, hoping to convey eloquently that it wasn't my damn fault that Nightingale had gotten all Merlin'd. DCI Seawoll had been epically pissed off this afternoon as it was when Nightingale had made excuses instead of coming down from his 'Ivory Fucking Tower' to look at the crime scene. 

Though, then again, maybe the issue of Abigail really _was_ that big. Bigger than the agreement, imaginary or not, that Nightingale had with the Commissioner involving keeping the Queen's Peace, come hell, high water, or magical entities. 

"How was school?" Lesley asked Abigail, with almost brittle cheerfulness.

"Okay." Abigail conceded. 

She had passed me back my warrant card with the subtlety of a thief before we had gone in for dinner. Since her frugal parents had never been one for fancy clothes, Abigail's dinner dress was really a second hand smock from a cousin who had long outgrown it, big enough that the sleeves were baggy. Nightingale didn't approve, but I had privately told Nightingale that offering to buy 'better' clothes for Abby was going to look Seriously Weird to her parents, and he had reluctantly conceded the point. 

"Was there anyone else in school who was like us?" I asked, curious to see how far Postmartin's influence would run. Change out the entire school's teaching staff, maybe?

"There was an old lady sitting in the waiting bit outside of the principal's office when I walked past," Abigail said, after a little moment's thought, "But she ent have much magic in her. I wrote it all down in me black book," she added cautiously, in case I was testing her. 

"What's this?" Nightingale had snapped out of his funk. 

"Abby can sense practitioners," I confessed, because sometimes with Nightingale there was no point in lying. "There's two in her school. One of the teachers, and whoever that old lady is."

"One of your teachers?"

"Mr Mason," Abigail seemed a little taken aback by Nightingale's frown. "He's short and round. About Molly's height. Lots of hair, but it's grey. Got spectacles, him, horn rimmed. He looks funny. Got a big laugh."

"Oh." Nightingale looked relieved. "That's Alphonse Mortimer. And the old lady - thin? Very tall? Green eyes?" At Abigail's nod, Nightingale added, "Lucy Falmer."

"If they don't have much magic," I said doubtfully, "How are they, going to, well-"

Nightingale arched an eyebrow, and I shut up. "Abigail will be learning magic here, not with them," he said smoothly, to cover up my fuck up. "They're there to ensure that she passes her A's, with a sufficient margin that her parents will be satisfied with how she chooses to commit her future."

Abigail looked suitably impressed, and at the end of dinner, even asked politely, "Can I take Peggy to my room?"

"If it makes a mess, you're cleaning it up," Nightingale said, just as politely, and Abigail nodded vigorously. The Fix was In.

VIII.

The Wise Old Men (and Two Women), as Lesley dryly termed them, showed up without warning one afternoon, in time for tea. There were ten of them all up, including Mortimer and Falmer, and Nightingale had quickly bundled them off to the lower Library for a Talk. The fish eye he shot me and Lesley indicated that it would be obscure Latin homework for us all week if we were caught trying to listen in.

Thankfully, after the matter of the Quiet People, Frank Cafferty and his group of obviously paramilitary 'firemen' had provided us with a box of somewhat more modern equipment, including a very advanced miniature roving radio transmitter that linked up to my phone. It had been obvious which room Nightingale was going to choose for his magical old person pow wow - in some regards, my master had the habits of an ancient cat. 

So that it would hopefully survive any sort of magical demonstration, if any, the bug had been placed behind one of the corner bookcases, and Lesley and I settled down in the carriage house with my phone to wait.

To our irritation, Nightingale opened by speaking in Latin. Damn the man. Lesley was a little ahead of me on reading Latin, but both of us couldn't understand most of its spoken form to save our lives. 

"Well," she said dryly, after ten minutes of pure Latin, "This is fun."

I sighed. "I'm going to check HOLMES over the exploding person murders." HOLMES was, not to put too fine a point on it, the Met's version of Wikipedia, complete with CCTV videos, witness statements, forensics reports - anything that was anywhere near vaguely relevant to a case. Seawoll hadn't had any minions produce an update since I had last checked it, though, so my attempt at actually doing real work while creatively disobeying my master failed. 

After a while of staring fruitlessly at HOLMES, trying to will it to vomit out something interesting, Lesley said, "Oh shit."

"What?"

"I'm pretty sure that he just mentioned something about a demonstration. _Probo_."

So much for the bug. Or maybe not. Depending on how big a demonstration from Abby that Nightingale was asking for, maybe the bug would survive. 

Our hopes were shattered after ten minutes, when the audio went dead. I switched off my phone, resigned. "That was a waste of time." 

Lesley snorted and held up a pocket recorder. "Only if you weren't focused on the problem. Idiot."

"Well," I retorted, "Since your Latin's better than mine, maybe you should transcribe and translate that."

Lesley bitched, but not by much. She was just as curious as I was in some regards - Nightingale had once said that it was her only character flaw. My good mood lasted all the way until the Wise Old Men And Women had cleared off and Nightingale summoned me to his study. The burned out bug was in the middle of his desk and he arched an eyebrow at me. 

An old instructor in the Academy had told us to assume nothing, not even the worst, so I only gave it a polite look, quietly braced myself, and glanced back over to Nightingale. "Sir?"

"Unfortunately," Nightingale said dryly, "I've now had the benefit of your company long enough to know when you're prevaricating, Peter."

"Beg pardon, sir." Blank and stiff. The parade ground sergeant at the Academy would have been proud. 

"If I can't even control my two older apprentices," Nightingale continued, although his tone stayed mild, "Do I have any hope at all of ensuring that this generation's Merlin grows up responsible, and in the name of all that's sacred, _balanced_?"

"About as much hope as anyone else, sir," I said honestly.

"It's good to have an inquiring mind," Nightingale noted, "But there's also something to be said for understanding when it's not required. Am I clear?"

"Very clear." 

"And so," Nightingale added, just as dryly, "Would you bug the room again if we have another meeting?"

"Depends," I noted, straight faced, though my jaw ached, "On whether I felt, objectively speaking, that my inquiring mind was needed or not at that instance, sir."

Nightingale actually started to laugh for a moment before he caught himself, then he shook his head. "I suppose it's just as well that she has at least two loyal friends," he said, and looked pensive. "Many of us have either lived too long in this life, or too long out of this life. In such a situation, perhaps the two of you are precisely the sort of friends that she needs." 

"Exactly, sir," I said, and then wished that I had kept my mouth shut - Nightingale shot me a tired look. 

"Transcribing our conversation is probably going to be punishment enough for Lesley, but you'll be pulling double practice. With all of your beer stash." 

I managed not to cringe. "Understood, sir."

"He's soft on you," Lesley said later, as she sat on a chair with the transcription in one hand and a Latin dictionary in another, watching me sorrowfully pulp the rest of my fine Nigerian lager. 

"Excuse me? What part of this is being soft?" Another bottle melted into gelatinous goop. "I'm so sad, me."

"Are you serious?" Lesley eyed me suspiciously, "Even half of the shit that he's let you get away with ever since you've become an apprentice would've been clear grounds for being retired. From the force. With extreme prejudice."

"Hey," I objected, "I had very good reasons for everything. Including that ambulance. And the flood was Beverley, not me."

Lesley shook her head slowly. "At least we know that there's a God."

"Really? Why?"

" _You_ weren't the one born a Merlin."

IX.

We slunk out of the latest murder scene to the beat up Ford after an hour of fruitlessly wandering around the vicinity, and opened our lunch packs. Mrs Kamara had been coming round regularly, and, with typically Sierra Leonian lioness tenacity, had somehow managed to broker an agreement with Molly. Whenever Mrs Kamara was around, she cooked. Molly had seemed more confused than hurt, and had followed Mrs Kamara around the kitchen anyway, bewildered when idle and insanely focused when given something to do, like chopping onions.

Deliberately vague and semi-true insinuations about Molly's messed up childhood had bought her enough sympathy from the Kamaras to allay their suspicions. More importantly, this also meant that packed lunch during the Kamara maternal unit's visits no longer included suspicious sarnies, but could have anything from fried plantains, cassava bread, okra soup and groundnut stews. 

"So, we've still got nothing," Lesley said, as we ate, happy with the largesse of lunch. 

Today we had yebeh on rice - a yam, smoked fish and dried shrimp stew with red palm oil base, fragrant and thick, and unlike my Mum's version, it wasn't spicy enough to melt iron. Traditionally, talking when eating was considered disrespectful to the food, but we felt that police business probably was a good excuse.

"Maybe it wasn't our gig after all," I said, albeit without much hope. Even Seawoll, who considered it a point of pride to piss on his tree every time he saw us by reminding us in no uncertain terms not to mention magic anywhere, had actually been quieter of late. The Commissioner was a great bear that slept uneasily, and seven murders with no suspect was a pretty major fuck up. 

"Nightingale isn't here," Lesley added accusingly.

"Stephanopoulos told me," I lowered my voice, "That Seawoll's been to see the old man about that."

"And?"

"And nothing. You don't see Nightingale here, do you? And Seawoll's been awfully quiet all morning. That's the silence of a man who's had his faith shaken, I bet."

"You think the Commissioner told Seawoll to mind his own business?" Lesley asked, incredulous. 

"He's still got us," I pointed out.

"Yay," Lesley offered, pointedly unenthusiastic. "We've got seven unrelated vics aged between eighteen to fifty two. Murders scattered between here and Whitechapel. No _vestigium_. Research has turned up zilch about exploding people from the inside with no fireballs. CCTV just shows spontaneous implosions. We're useless and Seawoll knows it."

"We could get Abby to look around," I said, without thinking. "She can smell magic somehow. Like Zach and the Rivers."

"No. Absolutely not. She's _thirteen_ ," Lesley stressed. "Are you crazy? Nightingale will _kill_ you."

"You said he's soft on me, right? Let's prove it. And she won't be anywhere near a body. We'll take her to the last site, the one's that just been cleaned." 

"Maybe she won't be able to help," Lesley said, "If you can't sense anything, how could she sense anything?"

"If nothing happens," I said, sounding hopefully as jaunty as I didn't feel, "Then we'll have had an interesting walk, we'll have introduced her to some friends who will be good for her in her future career in about five years or so, including DI Stephanopoulos, and-"

"And you're mad if you think that Nightingale won't find out about this."

"That's Plan B's problem."

Unfortunately, clearing this with Stephanopoulos meant necessarily clearing it with Seawoll, even though the exploding person murders was technically Stephanopoulos' shout. "No. Absolutely fucking not," he said instantly. "What if this Unabomber is still hanging around, eh? What if he blows up this little girl?"

"She'll be casing an old joint," I said reasonably, "And she won't even be _in_ it." 

"Your governor's okay with this, is he?" Seawoll growled.

"Well," I admitted reluctantly, "Hopefully he'll never get to hear about it." 

"And," Seawoll added, raising his eyebrows, "Just as a manner of speculation, is this little girl the reason the Commissioner's been so fucking cagey about Nightingale of late?"

"Couldn't say, sir," I said, as blankly as possible, and Seawoll groaned - actually _groaned_.

"I don't always have respect for your governor's methods, Grant," Seawoll said flatly, "But I've heard stories, and I've seen enough to know that most of them probably have some sort of grain of truth to them. I've no fondness for the man, but he's not someone whom I want as a real enemy, understand?"

"Understood, sir." 

"Not the last site," Seawoll said then.

"What?"

"Take her to the first one. That should be cold enough that there won't be any surprises. Besides, the first site's usually the most unpolished one, the one where the killer makes the most mistakes."

"But-"

"And Stephanopoulos will go with you. Just to ensure that there are no royal fuck ups involved. It'll be like a fucking kiddie daytrip. We could take the kid into the precinct later for fucking donuts and hot chocolate," Seawoll said sourly. "Dress it up. If you're right, and the kid's going to be joining the Met in five years, then I'll like to see her measure anyway. I want to see why the hell she's got the Commissioner walking on eggshells."

Amazingly enough, Seawoll's suggestion worked. I told Nightingale that I was going to be introducing Abigail to the world of preemptive police networking, and he agreed, on the condition that she finish all her homework. Having been carefully coached beforehand by Lesley, when Nightingale broached the matter to her at dinner, Abigail had been suitably unenthusiastic enough to allay suspicion but not disinterested enough for Nightingale to offer her some sort of out. 

We had our new Ghost Hunting mascot. Molly gave us a suspicious look when she packed for three, but I smiled winningly at her until she melted away to give some doorknobs a vicious polishing, or whatever.

X.

Lesley's hope that Abigail wouldn't sense anything and the whole business would just be a kiddie trip down to the Murder Team's digs was sadly mistaken. After a short while spent walking up and down Oxford street, Abigail asked, politely, "What was I supposed to look for again?"

For all her ferocious temper and reputation, DI Stephanopoulos was surprisingly sweet on children. We had just found her secret weakness. "Whether you can see anything that we can't see, Abigail."

"Some magic was done around here," I added, "We can't figure out how it's done." 

"Oh," Abigail said, blinking for a bit, "You could've said. The spell finished there," she added, pointing at a street corner where Jonathan Kilkenny, Victim One, aged 34, Accountant, had abruptly exploded in the street. 

"And where did it start?" Stephanopoulos asked, tense, her hand in her jacket, probably gripping her Airwave or her taser. 

"Umm." Abigail led us down a street, paused, and walked down another one, until we were in, of all places, the Burberry flagship store. An enterprising shop attendant flocked over, blinking at Lesley's masked face, then stared as Abigail marched right up to the changing room and pointed at the second cubicle. "In there."

I packed Abigail quickly out of the changing room and went in cautiously, twitching the curtain open. The room was empty, and had probably already been vacuumed a dozen times since it had last been used as an impromptu spell booth, but I could still sense a faint residue, when I stared at the mirror. There was the smell of new leather and something greasy, and at the bottom, something sweetly rotting. 

Usually, _vestigium_ faded quickly. Since it had been weeks since the first victim had exploded, this either meant that it was cast by someone very, very powerful - or, more likely, that the Burberry store was one of his favourite places to strike, and he'd done it again recently. Both weren't good thoughts to have, especially since we were _all_ still in said Burberry store, and I backed away hastily, to where Stephanopoulos had flashed her warrant card at the shop assistants. At my nod, she sighed, and picked up her Airwave. 

Lesley went for a look herself, and I held on to Abigail's hand. The little girl looked slightly anxious. "I was right, ent I?"

"Right exactly," I agreed solemnly, "And I'll sure as hell like to know how you did that trick."

"I could see the shape of it," Abigail said earnestly. "It was leaking slowly. Very little at a time. Then when the magic's gone, it goes. It was really faint on the street," Abigail continued doubtfully. "Maybe that's why you didn't see it." 

"What goes?" I asked, without thinking. 

"The water goes, like a balloon," Abigail pointed at a bottle of water standing behind the counter, and just as I was about to ask her what the hell she was talking about, the bottle exploded. A heartbeat after, so did the overhead lights.

When all the screams had died down and Stephanopoulos had hustled us out of there, locked down the Burberry shop, called down some of her peons with the radio in her car - her phone, Airwave and my phone having been summarily busted - Abigail was worried again. "I ent wrong, was I? I ent in trouble?"

Checking to see that Stephanopoulos was occupied in haranguing minions, I whispered, "How did you do that spell? Nobody showed you how to do it."

"I saw the shape in the air," Abigail said warily, as though expecting a trick question.

A terrible sinking feeling settled unto me. It was like the Pre-Wrath of the Nightingale. "What about in the Folly? Can you see spells there?" Lesley asked.

"Sure." Abigail shot me a puzzled glance. "Can't you? There's shapes everywhere in the air, there. Like ghosts. When you do a spell, you make a shape. That's how I saw how Mr Nightingale done it, with the beer bottle. I seen others, me."

"What others?" I asked, morbidly fascinated.

"You got one that floats things," Abigail's little face screwed up in thought. "You tried that one lots. There's a fire one, too. And Nightingale's got one that, um. It looked like he was making a miniature sun, over his hand. It dunt burn, though. Not until you want it to, sort of like a really, um, gnarly version of the fire. And there's this really cool small raincloud. And there's the one wot makes an invisible wall."

"And - I'm not asking you to demonstrate any of this, Abigail - you can do all of that?"

"Sure," Abigail offered, with a shrug. "It ent hard." She hesitated, then added, cautiously, as though she didn't want to sound proud, "Maybe I'm lucky, me."

"You definitely are," Lesley said feelingly, "Definitely more lucky than Peter will be, when he tells Nightingale that you now know _all_ his tricks." 

Abigail could literally see _forma_. Nightingale was going to have a heart attack after all. My answer was thankfully cut short when Stephanopoulos hustled back into the car, scowling impressively, then she remembered what sort of company she was in, and made an concerted effort to look calm and friendly again. It probably gave her kidney stones. 

"You did good there, Abigail," Stephanopoulos said carefully. "Did you see any other, er, trails leading to that room?"

"Or other cubicles?" I asked.

"No, just that room. There's an old one, the one we followed, and a new one. I think," Abigail concentrated mightily, "Two days, maybe. Or three. It's hard to tell," she said apologetically, oblivious to the way the three adults all exchanged looks. 

"And what did you mean about the water?" Stephanopoulos added.

"It's a time bomb," Lesley supplied. "The spell gets put on whoever it was in the change room. The person walks out. When the magic runs out, water, um, explodes."

"But," Stephanopoulos began, then she shut up. People were made up mostly of water, after all. "Ahh… sh- crap. My governor isn't going to like this."

"It's okay to say bad words," Abigail chose this inopportune time to try to be friendly. "Peter's said some really bad ones. It's a police thing, isn't it?"

Stephanopoulos glared at me as though I was personally responsible for every known slander against the Met known to Man, even as I tried to look as innocent as possible, then she sighed. "I'm going to take her home. And then Lesley is coming with me. We're going to do a second sweep of the other crime scenes."

"Aw," Abigail said, disappointed. "I wanted to see the police station."

"You can come again next time. Right now," Stephanopoulos glanced at me pointedly, "I suspect that Peter's governor is going to need a word with him. It's not your fault, Abigail," she told Abigail, who still looked crestfallen, "You've made a valuable contribution."

I hated that phrase.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's the weekend, and I've been especially bad (good?) with procrastination today. Double chapter update.

XI.

I had, in fact, come up with a lot of plausible flannel to feed Nightingale about the entire fiasco, seeing as I was fairly sure that the perpetrator was one of the Little Crocodiles - a pack of little terrors that had been illegally trained by a late acquaintance of Nightingale's during a dining club at Oxford when they were students. Ethically challenged, murdering practitioner shitheads.

After settling Abigail in to do her homework - hopefully watched over by Molly - I approached Nightingale in the library, where he was not so much sitting on an armchair but slumped into it. A little scrap of that inconvenient thing called my conscience wormed into the light. Damn.

"Something wrong, sir?" I asked cautiously.

Nightingale looked wearily up at me: it didn't seem as though he had slept a wink. "What is it, Peter?"

I sighed. Truth it was, then. "Okay. You're not going to like any of this."

 _That_ got his attention. I decided to start with the really bad news, just to get it over with. "I think I've figured out how Abigail picks up spells so fast. She can see _forma_. Even old _forma_. They look like light patterns or something. Once she sees it, she can do it."

Nightingale mulled this over, and I counted slowly in my head to ten. I got to six before the panic set in. "That spell I did in the lab, the one that caused the till to explode-"

"Yeah. That, and the full shield, and _Impello_. And the raincloud, and _Scindere_. Pretty much everything that you've ever demonstrated."

Nightingale was interestingly pale, and I ventured, "You know, sir, those research books were really vague on the details."

"That's because," Nightingale began, frowned, stopped, and added, "Not that I don't appreciate you informing me about how the naturally gifted come by their gift, Peter, but exactly how did you get around to such a topic?"

Ah, well, here goes the other bit. "Well," I said, as innocently as I could, "When Stephanopoulos, Lesley and I were taking Abigail to Seawoll's nick, she told us that she could see a trail of magic. Said a spell had ended on a crossing. It was where the first vic had exploded. It was smack in the middle of Oxford Street, so we thought, what the hell, and we let her lead us into a Burberry, where we found out where the spell had been cast. I asked Abby to describe it, and she blew up a water bottle."

"Good Gods, Peter," Nightingale pinched at the bridge of his nose again and closed his eyes, "Should she pick up your penchant for property destruction, she'll burn London to the ground!"

Well, that was unfair. "It's a magical time bomb," I added quickly, "She said that whatever it is, it's like a battery in a person. Once it runs out of magical juice, _boom_. That's why we didn't sense any _vestigium_ around the area. The trail from the leak would have faded for us."

"Was it the Faceless One?" Nightingale frowned.

That was the name I'd come up with for the ethically challenged magician who had sicced a half tiger, half man on me and then nearly killed me in a very one-sided rooftop duel. His hobby, as far as any of us could tell, was human experimentation, with magic. The failures, I heard, had a pretty monumental cost by way of corpses.

Thankfully, the _vestigium_ I had sensed wasn't his. "Nope. This is the part," I added hopefully, "Where you tell me that this time bomb spell is a basic level spell, and that Lesley and I have some hope of giving whoever did this a sound kicking."

"Sadly," Nightingale had closed his eyes again, "You know my answer to that one." 

I did - especially when Nightingale had first asked me whether the perpetrator was the Faceless One, rather than one of the Little Crocodiles. "Are every one of the bad guys going to be better than us?" I asked, albeit a little petulantly.

"You _did_ survive a duel with a Master," Nightingale pointed out, though he smiled faintly. A helicopter had been involved, after all. 

"With a lot of help, and you running back up," I took a deep breath, "Which is to say, sir, the way you've been staying in here, even Seawoll's been asking kindly after your health."

Nightingale tried to eyeball me, but he had nothing on my Mum, and eventually, he said quietly, "Do you know what inevitably happens when a Merlin is born, Peter?"

I was going to make a quip about stressing out old magicians, but something made me keep my sense of humour to myself. "No sir."

"War." Nightingale said flatly. "Every time. Either started by an adult Merlin, or fought over a child. Understand? By some strange fate of luck, Abigail was born into an utterly unassuming family with no apparent practitioners in its bloodline - that's what Postmartin's been checking over the past few weeks. Or the war would have begun within years of her birth."

"Okay," I blinked, "Is that why you called that old person war council?" Lesley's translation, unfortunately, had just picked up a lot of unnecessarily intricate mumbo jumbo about places that technically didn't exist anymore. There had in particularly been a lot of jabbering about Atlantis. 

Nightingale's lips twitched, but he didn't smile. "Among other things, yes. The problem that has been keeping me awake, Peter, and spending my time making calls instead of attending to my other responsibilities, is that we - being the English practitioner community, including our allies on the Continent - simply no longer have the resources or manpower to fight this war. We don't even have the resources," he added flatly, "To hunt down all these murderer practitioners." 

"Then what?" I demanded, growing annoyed, "We give in? Because, with all due respect, sir, maybe Lesley and I still suck at all this magic business, but-"

"And how do you propose to protect Abigail all the time? Along with her family? Or yours?" Nightingale challenged, and then he looked tired again. "We are certainly not going to 'give in'. But I feel that the Faceless One and the Little Crocodiles are soon going to be the least of our problems."

"So, you have a plan?"

"Not in the slightest," Nightingale closed his eyes again. "So I have been thinking. I still have a variety of favours that I can call in - between myself and the rest, we have a number of favours that may even prove to be very useful. The question is whether we _do_ call them in. It's not just ethically challenged practitioners who are likely to take an interest in a Merlin."

Given that the original Merlin had apparently been spirited off by nymphs or whatever, I decided to say nothing about my nascent thought about the Rivers. "I can't help but think that we really should be bolstering her bodyguard, boss."

"I'm not interested in advertising her presence, at least until I'm certain that the wrong parties are already aware of it," Nightingale pointed out. "And besides, _you_ drive her to school. And at school, she's become rather attached to Mortimer and Falmer." 

"Not to point out the flaw in your plan, boss, but they don't have much magic and I'm an apprentice. We're not much in the way of muscle."

"If it ever comes to a straight out magical 'throwdown'," Nightingale noted dryly, "If you have Abigail on your side, I very much doubt that you will lose. Which is why our enemies will not, if they have any sort of credence at all, be coming at us headlong."

"All right then," I said calmly, "If what we're trying to present here is a united front of Nothing Is Really Happening Here, despite the magical pow wow that happened right inside the Folly, then you have to go to work, sir." 

"A cover story for that has been disseminated."

"You mean the pow wow? Or your absence?"

"Both."

"And I don't want to sound pessimistic here," I added, "But it really sounds as though we're all screwed."

Nightingale rubbed a palm over his face. "Perhaps. Abigail is at that uncommon age where she's still young and innocent enough not to know what's safe for her, and old enough to draw her own conclusions."

"Meaning that this could start off as a war _over_ her," I translated dryly, "And then end off as a war _continued_ by her." 

"In the worst case scenario, yes. Wars begun over - or by - Merlins have also," Nightingale added wearily, "Tended to be be catastrophic. Atlantis, for example. Pompeii. Damghan. Antioch. Helike… Just to name a few. Ettersburg, but on a monstrous scale." 

"Okay," I tried to stay calm, "I understand why you're busy. But me and Lesley need a hint for some sort of counter spell or whatever for the exploding human trick. If you would be so kind. Sir." 

"'Lesley and I'," Nightingale corrected absently, and then the man had the balls to smirk. "Surely you can work out the solution by yourself, Peter. It is, after all, a design that is loosely similar to your 'skinny' grenade." 

"That will be such a comforting thought to me when I explode, boss," I replied cheerfully, and then nearly took a step back when Nightingale was abruptly out of his chair and right in my personal space, his hands clenched high over my arms, gray eyes intense with something that I couldn't figure. 

"Sit down quietly for a while and _think_ , Peter. The solution is there. I can't keep feeding you answers, and I may not always be there to help you. Especially now." 

"Okay," I began slowly, blinking owlishly, "Uh." 

Nightingale belatedly registered his grip, flushed, let go of me as though he'd been scalded, and sank back into his armchair. "If between Lesley and yourself you are still unable to think this through, talk to me again," he conceded. 

"Right, um, thanks. Sir." I retreated quickly. Seriously. Weird.

XII.

As it turned out, Abby could not only see _forma_ but _signare_ , even extremely faded and old _signare_ , and this seemed to be an endless source of amusement for Lesley. We formed a really weird procession - Toby, myself, Lesley, Abby and Peggy - wandering up and down the Folly on a nice Sunday afternoon, with Abby pointing out all the bits where someone or other, usually Nightingale, had at some point in time metaphorically marked his territory. Mrs Kamara was over again, which meant that Molly was haunting the kitchen instead of Abby's or Nightingale's heels, and Nightingale was nowhere to be seen.

"There, and there," Abby pointed gleefully, first at a windowseat, then at the piano. We were, at Lesley's suggestion, playing the wizardly version of I Spy. 

"Nightingale, then Molly and me," I guessed.

"Nope!"

"A Jane Doe," It was Lesley's turn, "And Nightingale."

"Right," Abby beamed. "Lesley's got five points on you, Peter."

"She's cheating," I accused, though halfheartedly. "Or just painfully lucky."

"Molly and yourself didn't use magic to move that piano, but it was probably moved - very carefully - by magic at some point," Lesley said loftily, "And that windowseat is closest to a set of bookshelves about early romantic poetry."

"Okay," I conceded meditatively, "Maybe I just suck at this game then." Peggy squawked from its perch on Abby's shoulder, as though in agreement. I glared at it, but it merely shot me a beady eyed look and ruffled its feathers.

The game got less fun the deeper we went into the Folly, and when everything just became John Smiths and Jane Does and the occasional Nightingale, we beat a retreat back to the habitable zones. Unfortunately, this roused Nightingale from his Sacred Mount of Thought, and he followed us from his study, quiet at first, then amused once he understood the game and, perhaps more importantly, understood that nothing was going to burn down. 

"There and there," Abby pointed at the third level's Viewing Room. It had a balcony, and a collection of random furniture under white sheets, dusty and eerie - Toby streaked over to the balcony, barking, then ran back, wagging his tail. 

"You're disqualified because you can't speak Human," I told the dog, then added, "Ladies first?" 

Lesley padded out on the balcony, looked around, and pointed to her left. "John Smith." There were very old burn marks on the ground, as though someone had snuffed out a cigar.

"Right!" Abigail grinned.

She came back in, lifted up the white sheet to reveal a divan, then said, very dryly, holding up a dusty silver cufflink, "John Smith and Nightingale?"

I tried not to look at Nightingale's face, but his ears had turned very pink. "Right," Abigail said, utterly oblivious. "Lesley's eight points ahead now."

I raised my eyebrows at Lesley, but she ignored me, though she did twitch a little when Abby pointed at a slightly scuffed wall within a few paces of said Viewing Room. "There."

"Ah, I think I know that one," I said blandly, even as Nightingale interrupted hastily, "Perhaps we should change floors."

"The _entire_ floor?" I asked, a little incredulous, before I could help myself, and even as Nightingale's ears definitely did turn red, Lesley elbowed me heavily in the ribs. 

The lower floor was our bedrooms, though, which was probably going to be boring. Even as Abby started to point, I said, "Lesley, You, Zach, Me."

"You, and?" Abby prompted.

"And Lesley?" Had Lesley entered my room at some point? or Zach? I didn't really remember. "Molly stands in the doorway sometimes to wake me up?" 

Abby could only sense _signare_ if there had been magic being used - or residual traces from a spell, or a charged device. Or, if the background trace wasn't human in the first place, though this last one seemed wonky. Maybe not-fully-human people like Molly and Zach occasionally gave off pings of _signare_ even if they weren't doing anything. That might be why Ash could recognise the Pale Lady. 

When Abby shook her head through the next few guesses, grinning, I caved. "All right, I give."

"Honeysuckle," Abby prompted encouragingly, and I instantly knew, somehow, that I was going to be in Serious Trouble.

"Lesley, could you take Abigail away and check on her homework?" Nightingale said, very politely, and Lesley shot me a sympathetic look before leading everyone else away.

Long story short, it was a case involving jazz and immortal sort-of female vampires who fed on jazz musician life forces. I'm not kidding. And I may have slept with one, the gorgeous and voluptuous Simone, before I cottoned on to this fact. I may also, I should add, have brought said gorgeous lady into my room in the Folly without telling anyone. 

"Firstly," I began, once Lesley and the others were gone, "I didn't know at that time that she was a jazz vampire." 

"If you can't differentiate between _vestigium_ , _signare_ and simple perfume-"

"It was a _really_ simple _signare_ -"

" _Peter_ ," Nightingale said sharply. "Never bring unauthorised guests into the Folly." 

"So, what do you mean," I said flatly, getting a little annoyed myself, admittedly because I was still a little, okay, _touchy_ over what had happened to Simone and her sisters in the end, "That I'm never going to be able to have people over without first getting your approval? Even my parents? What about Abby? What if she wants to bring her friends around, huh?"

"Your parents are fine-"

"Well, damn right they are," I growled, "Because I was under the impression that Lesley and me - and Abby - were invited to _live_ here, _sir_ , not get _incarcerated_."

Nightingale jerked back as though he had been stung. "Certainly I hope that you'll all be comfortable here-"

"And besides," I added flatly, "You didn't react when Zach showed up in here, yeah? Or does goblin boy have a default invitation because he's demifae? Or maybe because he stuck to his own bed?"

Nightingale had gone very still and quiet, and at that point, I immediately regretted what I had just said. "Okay," I exhaled. "I'm sorry. I like this place. I do appreciate being able to stay here, it's better than the dorms." 

"House guests," Nightingale said, in a painfully neutral voice, "Are welcome at the Folly."

"Um," I said intelligently, and when Nightingale turned to go, a vision of Lesley yelling _IDIOT!!_ at me in both voice and text prompted me to step lively and grab his arm. Like his magic, Nightingale was solid through and through, and when he shifted a little, I could feel the strength under his sleeve. "No. Seriously. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said all that."

Nightingale looked trapped, his lips parting for a moment, then thinning, as his eyes flicked up to mine, then down to my mouth, where they seemed to fixate. "Apology accepted," he said, unevenly, but made no move. "And I would like you to know, Peter, that I would have never made use of my position in a way that…"

He trailed off awkwardly, as though hypnotised, and I had to take in a slow breath. First impressions still held right. Nightingale really was handsome, the sort of handsome that turned heads in the street and got people wondering whether he was a film star out incognito. I should know. I had fielded more than my share of subtle and not so subtle inquiries about Nightingale's personal life, even from the Murder Team, both joking and semi-joking.

"You know," I said carefully, "I never did ask. The first night we met, did you really think that I was a police officer when you first saw me across the street hanging around the church?"

Nightingale's guilty look was answer enough, and fascinated, I continued, " _Really?_ It was freezing cold over there." And besides, I couldn't quite imagine DCI Nightingale, prim, put-together Nightingale, sleek and elegant in his bespoke coats and suits and silver-topped cane, getting down on his knees in a cemetery. Or anywhere. Or… Okay. Objectively speaking, maybe, maybe that was kinda hot. 

"There was a perfectly serviceable, discreet hotel within walking distance," Nightingale pointed out, actually sounding a little amused. "Times move on. Businesses adapt."

"You do that often?" I asked, and I felt annoyed again, the same sort of itchy annoyance I had felt when Nightingale had shown up at practice with Abby's moleskine - and okay. Deep breaths time. 

Nightingale's expression, however, had frozen. "That's a personal question." 

I knew that by this point the situation had stopped being a sort of chest-beating asserting-territory manly interaction and falling rapidly into the sort of interaction that had people talking about bats, teams and the sides of fences, but I swear, I couldn't move. 

Rather to my surprise, Nightingale answered the question anyway. "… No," he said finally. "Not often." 

Certain people, including Lesley, would say that mad impulse has driven my career to date and would probably irretrievably wreck it someday. I note that in each case there were really exceptional circumstances, and in any case, it _did_ make sense at the time. What _didn't_ make sense for me to do now was to close the really, really small distance between us for a kiss. Maybe that was why I did it. 

Nightingale's lips were weirdly soft, and he tensed up instantly, not responding, though he did let out a shaky breath when I pulled back. His gray eyes were wide, totally shocked, and his ears were growing pink again; it took him a few more stuttered breaths before he asked, "Are you bespelled?"

I couldn't help it - I laughed. "Okay. Firstly, I'm pretty sure that you should be able to tell, especially after that lecture I just got about the difference between perfume and whatever, and secondly, I guess you seriously don't get laid often. Sir."

The last part of my statement probably could have been tactfully left out, but instead of growing annoyed, Nightingale merely looked uncomfortable. "There isn't any such obligation in the apprenticeship-" at which point, to save us both from dying from embarrassment, I leaned forward again.

Kissing a guy is… _different_ , I supposed. Same mechanic, different operation, at least when Nightingale unfroze himself from whatever ethical/moral/social/personal problem that he had and actually gave something back. 

Or maybe it was just Nightingale. Nobody had ever kissed me before like they were drowning, pressing me against the doorframe, licking into my mouth and choking off a moan when I used a bit of teeth. It was good. It was more than good. It was cold in the Folly at the best of times, but I felt like I was burning up under my clothes, and judging from the flush under the hand I'd got over Nightingale's cheek, I wasn't the only one. 

So. Not just a small crush on Nightingale's end, then.


	5. Chapter 5

XIII.

Nightingale was extremely twitchy for the next couple of days and avoided us at all times except for dinner, which made Lesley frown at me after the third time our master could be seen hastily exiting the vicinity when we arrived. It was funny at first, and then after that I wasn't sure. I wasn't sure why I had done what I had done but I did know that I did, sort of, want a repeat.

There. 

Work buried my quarter life sexual identity crisis, thankfully: Seawoll and Stephanopoulos dragged Lesley and I through probably every single clothes shop with a changing room within a two block radius of each crime scene. They also vetoed any further use of Abigail in the case. Thirteen year old girls weren't meant to be used as sniffer dogs, even if they were unbelievably powerful.

Or maybe _because_ they were unbelievably powerful. I hadn't said anything at all about what Abigail was capable of, but Seawoll and Stephanopoulos weren't stupid. 

At the end of two days, we had identified four other favourite locations, and the Murder Team settled down to watch reams of CCTV footage. Since there wasn't anything left to do for now, and we weren't charitable enough to offer to help out, we hung around, had a nice cup of coffee, picked up Abigail after school, and went home. 

Nightingale didn't twitch when he saw us pack into the foyer, but it was probably a near thing. "Abigail," he began, "If you're not tired, I think that you should learn a few more defensive spells. Put your things away and I'll see you in the lab." 

This perked Abigail up immensely - she had been feeling down after some sort of test in school. The transfer from her high school in Kentish Town to South Hampstead had been a cultural - and academic - shock. With a whoop, she rushed off towards the stairs. 

Nightingale started to inch off, but I said, as mildly as I could, "Can we sit in?"

"These spells can have disastrous consequences if practiced without the correct grasp of basic principles, Peter." Nightingale, however, avoided my eyes.

"Okay, then we won't try them," I said reasonably, "But I'm still curious."

"That's exactly what worries me," Nightingale noted, though he smiled faintly.

"And we'll be able to recognise what she's doing," Lesley added, just as reasonably, "And know what threat she's facing from a first glance." 

Nightingale hesitated, visibly uncomfortable, "These spells comprise of a combination of low level and mid level _forma_ that can be highly dangerous if not combined _perfectly_ -"

"We're not _Abigail_ , okay? We _know_ that." I said, with perhaps a bit more irritation than I had intended. "I've never even been able to reproduce that raincloud."

Nightingale's gaze finally snapped up to me, and whatever he saw there made a flash of guilt cross his eyes, then he sighed. "Very well. The both of you may watch. But you must promise me, on your magic, not to try any of them without my express permission." 

We duly promised. Abby was already waiting in the lab, trying not to look too excited, and it took five minutes for us to lock Peggy and Toby out. "We'll start with the full shield," Nightingale began.

She looked slightly disappointed. "I know that one."

"Yes, but I'll like to see it." 

Abigail shrugged, and although I didn't see anything happen, I could feel it when her shield kicked in. Nightingale had walked over to where a line of jugs of water sat on the bench, and he came back with it in his hands, pouring it over her. It flowed off in a perfect half-sphere, the water puddling over the ground.

Hell. I could manage a part shield that could stop _some_ bullets. But there was no way mine was that complete. 

"Float yourself up," Nightingale suggested, and with a little concentration, and wobbly at first, Abigail lifted up into the air until she was on eye-level with Nightingale. The second jug of water rained off, the sleet of liquid outlining a briefly perfect sphere.

Nightingale looked impassive, but _I_ was pretty impressed. "Back down, thank you. Shield off." 

The shield lesson lasted for twenty minutes, where Abigail was asked to shield herself, me, Lesley, then all of us at once, against physical objects, against magic, and presumably against terminal boredom, until Nightingale was satisfied. I could tell that Abby was beginning to feel a bit disappointed, and started to grin. Maybe she had finally realized that learning magic was definitely _not_ as it was in Harry Potter. 

Then Nightingale said, "Next, a doorway," and with no gesture, what looked like a two dimensional mirror appeared to his left, just high enough for him to walk through. He stepped through, and stepped _in_ to the room from the entrance to the lab, out of nowhere. He then headed over to the basket of apples, and tossed one through the mirror - which flew out at the entrance of the lab and rolled to a stop under the table.

Lesley sat bolt upright, even as I blinked. That was some seriously cool _Portal_ shit. Instead of showing Abigail the individual _forma_ , however, as I secretly hoped, Nightingale looked at Abigail expectantly. She studied the mirror, then the invisible exit, and a second mirror door opened beside her - she stepped through even as Nightingale barked, "Wait!" 

After two seconds, when she didn't step back into the room, I said, "Abby?" 

"Peter, stop-" Nightingale snapped, but I was already squeezing through the mirror door. It felt cold, like I was being dusted in snow - then I walked out right into the sun, into a cacophony of music, horribly garish artificial sculptures, and insane crowds. 

Disneyland. Fucking _Disneyland_. 

Abby was looking at the Tomorrowland ride with undisguised avarice and wonder, and I hastily grabbed her by the hand, even as behind us, Lesley was next through the door, then Nightingale, looking royally ticked off. The expression on his face when he realized where we were was hilarious, though. 

"Abby," I said slowly, "Which Disneyland is this?"

"Dunno," She looked briefly embarrassed. "Um. I saw it on a postcard. There's more than one?" 

Lesley had marched over to a gift stand, and came back with a brochure and map. It was still today's date, thankfully. "Florida," she said, unnecessarily. "Wow." 

Wow, indeed. From the way Nightingale was still looking around, stunned, I could tell that he hadn't exactly expected the international field trip, either. Making an executive decision, I handed Abigail over to Lesley, and waited for Lesley to take the girl back to the gift shop before shuffling back to our master. 

"Could you have come this far?" I asked mildly. 

"I've never tried," Nightingale said, then he shook his head and made a hoarse, mirthless laugh. "The longest distance for a successful _exsisto_ recorded is two and a half miles." 

"What happened to normal people who tried for further than that?"

"I had a classmate in the final form who tied a rope around his waist and tried it when he was drunk. The rope went lax. It was snipped off, as though it ceased to exist past the gate. The literature," Nightingale said a little shakily, before he cleared his throat, "Is usually of the opinion that the average human practitioner cannot envisage and power an accurate push beyond two miles. And even then, the vision of your destination has to be very strong, and fresh in your mind."

"Wow," I looked back over at the Tomorrowland ride, blinking. 

Nightingale seemed to shake himself out of it. "Which is why it was _very_ reckless of you to have stepped through that gate," he added, sounding irritated. "And Lesley!"

"Maybe you shouldn't have shown Abby how to do this trick without telling her about the two mile thing, then," I retorted. "Besides, _you_ went through the gate too!"

Nightingale exhaled slowly. "This is one of the most complex spells in my repertoire, Peter. I concede that I did not expect her to reproduce it perfectly at first instance. We'll have to return to the Folly. I will have to rethink the list of spells that I was willing to teach her." 

"Look," I gestured at Abby and Lesley. Lesley had somehow managed to navigate the currency divide/had used her credit card, and Abby was looking far too excited to be the proud recipient of a Mickey Mouse hat for a girl of her age. "Let's stay for a bit more, all right? I don't think any of us have been to Disneyland." 

"This is _serious_ , Peter."

"Yeah, look," I said firmly, "If you make her take us home now, she's just going to find a way to come back here. Probably by herself." When Nightingale looked as though he was going to object again, I added, "Sir. Because _you_ underestimated her, after everything that I've told you about her, you've given her the key for her to go wherever she wants, _whenever_ she wants. If you want her to stay in the Folly and keep coming home, you're going to have to make her want to be there."

Nightingale stiffened, setting his jaw, then after a while, as I hoped, he exhaled. "I suppose you do have a point." 

"'Course. So call it a day. Let her get sick on purple popcorn. Go on some rides. You want her to grow up responsible and like people? It's not going to happen with her stuck shuttling between school and the Folly. And more importantly, make it far more fun for her to be going places with _us_ than by herself." 

"All right, I concede," Nightingale actually managed a wry smile. 

"Okay. Good." I was about to head back to Lesley, when Nightingale touched my arm. 

"About earlier," Nightingale said, a little uncertainly, "I want to stress that I'm not showing Abigail some sort of… preference. Over yourself. And Lesley. But she does need to learn spells that will allow her to escape. Or shield herself, or hide." 

"Oh, that." I tried to sound as breezy as I could. "It's fine. We get it. We just wanted to watch, that's all. After all, I have the feeling that we're going to be looking after her for a very long time." Probably the rest of our lives. It was a bit of a sobering thought. 

"And about…" Nightingale wavered, for a long and painful moment, then I decided to take pity on him. It was a nice day, it was Disneyland, and Nightingale had enough shit on his plate.

"You want to pretend it never happened, sure," I said mildly, then took a deep breath, "But I'm putting it out there that I don't mind a repeat." 

Nightingale actually looked floored, this time, so I awkwardly patted him on the arm and slunk back to Lesley. "Ix-nay on the trouble-ay," I whispered, and she rolled her eyes at me. 

"Let's get popcorn," I told Abigail, and she grinned.

XIV.

HOLMES had flagged several Persons of Interest, and when we got back from Disneyland, our phones had twenty-three missed calls in total between them. Abigail shot us a sympathetic look before ambling off, possibly to collapse of sugar exhaustion somewhere, followed by Molly.

"Where the hell have the two of you been?" Stephanopoulos barked, when I called her and put the phone on speaker.

"You wouldn't believe it," I told her dryly.

"I don't care if you made a field trip to the fucking moon," she growled, showing a fine Seawoll-inherited sense of vocabulary, "But you should fucking take your phones with you! We're going to visit one of the PIs. I want you at the drop _yesterday_." She rattled off an address, then the line went dead.

"We haven't figured out the water explosion undo trick yet, by the way," I told Nightingale, who looked briefly indecisive, then he glanced over to Lesley. 

"Stay here with Abigail. If you field any calls from Walid or Postmartin, get them to leave a detailed message. For anyone else, just take their names and numbers. _Don't_ tell them that I'm out. And don't let any strangers into the Folly."

"Meant to be house-sitting, are we?" I arched an eyebrow.

"No, Peter," Nightingale said patiently, "But someone might try and chance the Folly's protections if I'm not here." 

This sounded like certifiable paranoia to me, considering not even Tyburn had seriously ever tried to get into the Folly, and Beverley had straight out refused, but Lesley nodded. We took the Jag, which was a nice change, although the relief on Stephanopoulos' face when Nightingale got out of the car behind me was pretty insulting.

The last registered address of Person of Interest #1, Anthony Holland, 41, self-employed, was an unassuming shophouse in Hackney. Shopfront up front, selling homemade soap, of all things, narrow terrace housing up top. No priors, one noise complaint from the neighbor last year, no complaints after. Seems Mr Holland had apologised profusely and no further charges had been pressed. 

Stephanopoulos had been willing to go in mob-handed, but Nightingale had taken one look at the door, frowned, and had walked across the road to Hackney Downs. He went up to a tree and pulled off a branch, and I made a face. I didn't like what was going to happen next.

Branches were good for one thing so far that I had learned - defusing magical land mines - or demon traps, as they were commonly called. The greener and fresher the branch, the better. The problem was, even a safely triggered demon trap usually made me feel like throwing up my breakfast all over my shoes. 

"Trapped door," I told Stephanopoulos, who was now scowling, and it was a little hilarious how the Murder Team more or less took a collective step back. Stephanopoulos was already on her Airwave, instructing minions to pull up more files on Holland, when Nightingale returned, still stripping leaves from his sapling branch. 

"Across the road, please," he told them, and the Murder Team - including DI Stephanopoulos - hastily cleared off. "Peter, tell me what's wrong with this door."

I studied the seemingly unassuming door, trying to figure out what Nightingale had seen that had tipped him off, then I looked down. "There's letters on the steps," I said, "When there's a perfectly good letter slot. Looks like it was glued shut." 

"Very good," Nightingale said approvingly. "Noticing details like this could save your life. Mr Holland didn't want a postman setting off whatever it was in there by accident. So what would you do next?"

"Uhh." I hesitated, then, "Presumably, he's expecting practitioner visitors. So if we blow off the lock, the trap will set off. Anything crossing the threshold gets a nasty surprise, even something as small as a letter, right? So we try the window."

"Demon traps are notoriously difficult to disarm," Nightingale said mildly, "Even for their owners. So how would Mr Holland be able to leave home?"

"Back door entrance," I said, even as there was a sudden explosion, muffled screams, and a sickening, meaty sound, like a bubble of something big, thick and wet popping. Three pops, in quick succession. Bile rose in my throat, but I swallowed hurriedly.

"The backup team!" Stephanopoulos snapped, about to turn and run around the block, but Nightingale had simply stepped over to the next terrace house, blown the lock off, and run through. I followed, wondering what the hell we were all doing, rushing through a chintz living room and past two shocked old ladies before bursting out from a kitchen full of tacky ornaments into a narrow flower garden. Nightingale had blown the garden gate nearly off its hinges, and was running through, after a fleeing shape in gray jeans and a white shirt. 

God. It was carnage out there: I tried not to look too closely at all the gore and gristle as I went past. Holland had gone through the three PCs marking the back door as though he had been zapping balloons. Thankfully, he hadn't tried for the rest, who were all taking shelter behind a car, wide-eyed with horror. 

No, that made no sense. They would have been right in his line of fire. He could have blown them up too. 

The _mirror_. Changing rooms. He needed line of sight to an entire person. Maybe a stationary view, at that. Those three PCs poised behind his door never stood a chance.

I set off after Holland, quickly overtaking Nightingale, hoping to hell that I was right. One of the PCs behind the car had gotten off a lucky shot - Holland was bleeding, and after a couple of blocks and turns, was starting to slow down. He turned a hate filled glance back at me just in time for me to see him open his mouth, and I hastily ducked behind a car. He snarled, turning to run again, and hoping that I wasn't about to instantly implode, I started to step out from behind cover.

Holland hesitated, bared his teeth, and turned again, hands outraised, and I had a brief moment of inspiration. Abigail hadn't summoned the sparkly unicorn on top of her, she'd done it half a metre or so to the side. What if _Transitus_ could be used to summon things to spots? I concentrated, caught the forma in my mind, and _pulled_ -

A cafe chair winked out of existence behind Holland and reappeared above him - not in chair form, as I had hoped, but as goop. Holland let out a yelp as he was drenched in, what was in my experience, extremely sticky, opaque ex-chair goop, pulling frantically at it with his hands, at which time the cavalry in the form of Stephanopoulos had charged around the corner, run straight at him, and tased him. She then kicked him in the stomach for good measure when he was prone on the ground, and looked around guiltily to see if her moment of police brutality had been documented. 

A couple of kids on the sidewalk started to clap, even as Nightingale rounded the corner a few seconds later, looked over wildly, relaxed when he saw me, and then frowned at the unconscious Holland. 

"Peter, I've told you about experimenting," Nightingale said dryly, as he strolled over to stand with me and watch the circus start, what with cuffing the unconscious man and calling up a car to get him to Processing, and God, calling down an ambulance unit even though only the clean up crew was going to be of any use. Poor bastards.

"I didn't think that the chair would melt, sir." I had, after all, mastered the normal _Transitus_ a day or so ago.

"You were lucky that it did," Nightingale pointed out, and beckoned Stephanopoulos over. "Ensure that he remains blindfolded at all times, Detective Inspector." 

"Once we get this stuff off him, sure." Some of the PCs were gingerly prodding at the ex-chair muck.

"He needed full line of sight for that spell to work," I said, gesturing at the car I was behind. "So I guess if you really, really need to look him in the eye, make sure you're behind a table or something."

"Remarkably," Nightingale arched an eyebrow, as Stephanopoulos jogged off, "You have a quick grasp of application, but not of method." 

"I figured that what you meant was that he somehow turns the entire human person into a skinny grenade, just like how Abby used the bottle of water that was in full view on the shelf behind the counter, and not the partially covered vase that was closer to us on display," I said, "So he needs to hold the whole shape of his bomb in his mind. Because all the PCs behind that car survived, when he could have cleared them all out and not got himself shot."

"Excellent." Nightingale was pleased, and I tried not to grin. "But your lesson's not yet over." He handed me the stick.

"I hate demon traps," I told him.

"Move along, Peter."


	6. Chapter 6

XV.

I had the feeling that Nightingale had never brought in a live murder suspect before. Instead of disposing of them through Frank Cafferty or technically illegal means, that is. Belgravia nick was in a state of excited confusion: Nightingale and Seawoll had been locked in Seawoll's office over the past hour, and even Stephanopoulos was beginning to look a bit uncomfortable.

The heavily blindfolded, still slightly goopy Holland had been shackled down in the interview room, occasionally grinning to himself. It was, I had to admit, creepy as hell, and I lived with Molly, whom I had previously thought gave me a decent personal buffer towards everything that was creepy. She had once done a very decent impression of Sadako when in the midst of trying to kill me - my fault, technically, not really hers - and she still retained the ability to wake me up from REM sleep just by standing creepily in my doorway. 

"Fucking bastard," Stephanopoulos muttered. We were in the obs room, behind the glass. "Those were three damned good PCs. Family men."

"What d'you think is going to happen?" I asked, curious. 

"Well," Stephanopoulos looked me in the eye, "We don't really fucking want him here."

I nodded, slowly. A man who could cause people to explode through 'other means' - Seawoll's favourite euphemism for magic - was definitely not wanted _anywhere_. "There's going to have to be a trial," I said, if very doubtfully.

"You're not going to be able to find a jury for this," Stephanopoulos predicted, and shook her head again. "Fucking mess." 

"What normally happens?" I asked cautiously. "With the cases that Nightingale gets involved with? Before me?"

"I've heard stories," Stephanopoulos began, looked indecisive, then her shoulders slumped. "The cases go away, all right? I took a look, after, well, after the Punch and Judy case. Nightingale's cases disappear, or they get sealed up tight at the highest clearance level. I used to think it was fishy as hell. I thought maybe that was why Seawoll never liked him. Now," she barked a laugh, "I just want him to make this guy disappear too."

And here I thought that nothing could ever shake up DI Stephanopoulos. To pass the time, I called the Folly. The phone was picked up in absolute silence, meaning Molly. "Could you get Lesley for me?" 

More silence, soft footsteps, then Lesley answered, "Peter?"

I updated her on the case, and had gone on to describe the two demon traps we had found in Holland's house when Seawoll reemerged, with a loud, "Now where's that son of a bitch?" 

Stephanopoulos and I emerged from obs, both duly relieved to see that our respective governors were alive and unmauled by each other. "We're cooperating," Seawoll said sourly, when he saw his DI and right-hand woman. "Get back in obs with Grant. I'm going in with Nightingale." 

"Sir-"

"I trust him to keep any odd shit to a minimum," Seawoll cut in. Irascible, offensive and utterly arrogant as he might be, you couldn't fault Detective Chief Inspector Seawoll for courage. 

Still, it was a rare thing when a suspect got _two_ DCIs in interrogation, even a multiple cop killer, and I could still hear the Murder Team whispering to each other when I meekly followed Stephanopoulos back into obs.

A moment later, Seawoll and Nightingale entered the interview room. Seawoll sat down, while Nightingale leaned against the wall, hands loose at his sides, close enough to Seawoll to bring up a shield and still keep Holland in full view. 

Seawoll started up the recorder, put in the usual spiel of names, dates, suspect and blah, and said, flatly, "All right, Holland. You killed three of my boys today. Good men. I know you killed all seven of the other vics. I want to know why, when, and where." 

Holland began to laugh, a grating, pitchy sound that made the hairs stand up on my skin. Nightingale tapped his fingers on the wall, and added, "Usually, we have other arrangements for your kind," he said, in as cold a tone as I had ever heard from him. "But there may be a chance that you could be incarcerated without the usual accoutrements if you cooperate. I want to know who taught you, and where, and whether there're more people out there like you."

This time, Holland's head snapped over in Nightingale's direction, and then his lips drew back. "Sing, Nightingale, sing," he whispered, and then he leaned back in his chair and sang, in a painfully gasping falsetto, " _London bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down - London bridge is falling down, my fair lady_." 

Seawoll reddened impressively, but Nightingale sighed. "I was afraid of this. Prolonged use of… other means… has a damaging effect on the brain."

"Fuck," Seawoll began, even as Holland started to sing the same verses again.

This time, though, when he got to 'my fair lady', he added, in a low whisper, "Abigail Kamara."

Nightingale bolted up from where he had been leaning against the wall. "What?"

"We know about Abigail Kamara," Holland grinned, his lips drawing wide, wider and wider yet, then he said, "Bye bye, Nightingale." 

I was just in time to see Nightingale bring up his hands, then the lights in the interview room went out. Stephanopoulos charged out, swearing up a cloud, and all but kicked in the interview door, drawing her gun and cocking it. I was right behind her, and she stepped on something that squished, loud and wet, just as Nightingale conjured a werelight. 

Holland had splashed himself all over most of the room, save in a semicircle where Nightingale had thrown up a full shield around himself and Seawoll. Seawoll had shot to his feet, his chair on the ground behind him. He stared at the mess, then at Nightingale, then back to the mess, and leaned down, righting the chair. The _vestigium_ was thick in the room, of new leather and rot, along with Nightingale's _signare_.

He couldn't have exploded Seawoll and Nightingale blindfolded. But he still had himself, the crazy bastard.

"Ah, fuck." Seawoll growled. 

Nightingale was already striding out of the room, the werelight winking out. "Call home, Peter!" 

I hadn't needed him to tell me twice - I was already dialling. This time, Lesley picked up. "What happened?"

"Get Abigail and-" Nightingale took the phone from me.

"Lesley, take Abigail. Ask Molly to bring the both of you to the Locker. She'll know. No. Only the two of you. Now." 

We probably broke every single traffic law getting home, and Nightingale lost no time sprinting for the kitchen, clattering down the stairs to the cellar, and then running for a seemingly empty patch of wall. He felt along the side until there was a click, then the wall rolled past, revealing a corridor. 

Molly stood at the end, all teeth bared, fingers curled into claws, hissing for a moment before she recognised the both of us, then she sniffed for a moment and calmed down instantly, covering her mouth with both her hands. She pressed a hand to the empty wall behind her, and that too rolled away, to show a panic room, brightly lit, Lesley with a werelight over a palm that could easily be spun forward as a fireball. 

"Peter?" Abby asked, peering from behind Lesley. "What's going on?"

"Routine um, fire drill, Abby." The werelight winked out, and I somehow managed to stumble the rest of the way and hug Abby tightly. The panic room was about the size of my old room in the Academy dorms, and had a bed, a bookshelf, ventilation from somewhere, an a cabinet full of bottles of weirdly coloured liquids. I decided that I didn't want to know, and got up. 

Lesley stared at me, then at Nightingale, and her shoulders slumped a little. "We're out of time, aren't we?"

"We're out of time," Nightingale agreed wearily.

My phone rang, and I actually flinched violently enough to make Abby squeak. It was Stephanopoulos, and I stepped out of the panic room, picking up. "Grant."

"How's Abigail?"

"She's fine. Everything's good."

"No, it fucking isn't," Stephanopoulos growled, "There's been a fresh vic. Another exploded one, in Soho. Seawoll says leave your governor with the kid, but get back out here."

XVI.

The new _vestigium_ smelled like dried fish left too long in the sun and smoked hock. I backed out of the changing room of the Jack Spade shop - the closest clothing shop to the scene of the crime. "Someone new," I told Stephanopoulos, as she called in her minions through her Airwave.

"Fuck." Stephanopoulos growled. "And I thought that we had fucking got the fucker. A copycat killer?"

"Well," I said wryly, "At least now we know how the, um, other means works. If you get behind cover and shoot enough bullets you can get lucky."

"I'll bear that in mind," Stephanopoulos muttered. "For this new special fucker, I'm going to kick him in the balls as well as in the stomach." 

I decided not to point out that magic was a unisex activity, and was about to leave the store when the shop assistant nervously raised his hand. "Er. Are you people with the police?"

"I showed you my warrant card, didn't I?" Stephanopoulos barked.

"It's, it's just that, it's just that a courier came a short while ago… we got a card addressed 'To the Police'," the shop assistant stammered, "'Attention DCI Nightingale'. We thought it was a practical joke so it's in the trash but I can-"

"Don't touch it!" Stephanopoulos and I yelped at the same time. 

Never had a trash can been so thoroughly tested for explosives, dusted for fingerprints, tested for random substances and then, from a careful distance and with a lot of fiddling, opened with a couple of sapling branches.

It was a plain white card, with the message on one side and a phone number printed on it, which, naturally, turned out to be unlisted.

"Maybe it blows something up," Seawoll growled, as he paced like a restless lion in his office. Nightingale was on speakerphone, and I was wedged in a corner of Seawoll's overflowing desk with a notepad and pen. Yay me. 

"Or it could give us a lead," Nightingale had been dutifully playing Devil's Advocate. "Alexander, I can't leave the Folly until I have a better grasp of the situation." 

"I know," Seawoll grumbled, rather to my surprise. "Maybe you should have fucking taught Peter more tricks."

"I tried," Nightingale said, very dryly. "I'm happy to speak to whoever it is on the other end of the line, and take responsibility for whatever happens."

Seawoll grunted. "Fine. But we'll call them from my office."

"You don't know whether that would-"

"And you think whatever trick can go down a phone line - when you've told me that whatever you do shorts out tech - won't do anything to the Folly? You've got a kid there, Thomas, fucking _think_."

It took ten minutes for all the tracing paraphernalia to be set up, and the floor briefly cleared. Seawoll glared at Stephanopoulos when she insisted on staying, but she stared back at him, and eventually, he just dialled the number. 

It picked up on the third ring. "Inspector Nightingale, I presume."

I knew that voice. The owner of it had last been seen siccing a man-tiger on me. 

FACELESS1!!! I texted Lesley, even as Nightingale spoke smoothly, "You have the advantage of me, sir."

"Ah," There was a rattling laugh, "I've encountered your apprentice on a rooftop with a helicopter. I congratulate you. He's surprisingly resistant to compulsions." 

Seawoll prodded me with a thick finger, and I scrawled, STRIP CLUB DR MOREAU on a pad and held it up. He arched an eyebrow, but Stephanopoulos grabbed the pad and pen from me and wrote on it. After a moment, Seawoll's scowl deepened furiously. 

"That's one item on a long list of things that I would be interested in discussing with you," Nightingale had said, without hesitation and no apparent change in tone. "Was Holland your apprentice?"

"Holland?" There was a snort. "Hardly. That man has no magic whatsoever. He was being ridden. Although the latest victim was one of mine, by one of my agents - I just needed to get your attention."

"And you have it."

"I propose a temporary alliance, Nightingale," The Faceless One said without preamble. "You have the Merlin. I know that, and your enemies, varied as they are, likely know that by now as well. I have no interest in allowing them to take London, and neither do you."

"And you can be trusted?"

There was another rattling laugh. "Certainly not. Think of it as an alliance of necessity. I know where that little girl goes to school. I know where her parents live, where her friends live. I know where Peter Grant's parents go to listen to jazz on a Thursday, which store Lesley May's parents visit for their groceries. How much manpower do you have, Nightingale? Can you protect all the pieces on your chessboard? What about the smaller pieces, or your so-called Queen's Peace? That last fresh victim died so very easily enough."

"And you can help?" Nightingale retorted contemptuously, even as I clenched my hands tightly. I nearly flinched at Seawoll's grip on my shoulder, even as he gestured sharply at Stephanopoulos. She nodded and stepped out the office, pulling up her Airwave. 

"My… what did you call us? My Little Crocodiles and I have far more firepower to put in play than you and your tired gang of retirees," the Faceless One purred. "You don't need to see us, but our presence will be there. We'll help you retaliate against all comers to London. We'll share information. We'll keep an eye out on your pieces. We'll help you curtail little incidents like Holland's. You know that you just have to hold out for five years. We can help." 

Seawoll prodded me again, but I only shrugged. This five year thing was news to me too. 

"There's only one piece on the chessboard that matters," Nightingale said flatly, "And she's already where she needs to be." 

From the Faceless One's laugh, I could tell that he wasn't buying it. "Even if that was true, is she? Your fortress isn't impenetrable, Nightingale. It isn't self-sufficient. You need us and you know it. All I want from you in return is to speak to Abigail. Location of your choice. You can attend, if you like. It doesn't even have to be in person. It doesn't have to be now. I just want five minutes of her time. I swear on my magic that she and any guests she brings won't be harmed." 

"Out of the question."

"This is me asking you _nicely_ ," The Faceless One retorted. "I could have spoken to her any time that I wanted to during the last few weeks if I had wanted. I know which school she goes to, after all."

"So what kept you back? Sheer propriety?" 

"I needed to ascertain the identity of the puppeteer behind the Holland murders," the Faceless One replied. "And I could only do that when he had died. He still had a message to deliver, after all. After that, I decided to intervene. The Narcisse bokor are too big for just one of us." 

From the silence over the line, I could sense that Nightingale, disconcertingly enough, was now worried. That was not a good sign. "I think that you could have spoken to her in the school," he said finally, neutrally. "Had you in fact known which school it was. You bluff poorly, sir."

"A war's coming, Nightingale," the Faceless one said curtly. "If not now, then in the future. Someday she will choose her enemies - and her generals." Another rattling laugh. "I know which side of the river I want to be on. Call me back when you've made up your mind. And in the meantime - I know you're tracing this line. I've left a little present at the end of it. Think of it as a gesture of my good will." 

I started in my seat, but the line was dead, and Nightingale said, in a clipped tone, "Alexander?"

"We've got the address."

"Take Peter."

"Like I needed you to fucking tell me that," Seawoll huffed. "What the fuck is going on, Thomas? And don't you fucking feed me any bullshit! Three of my boys blew up like goddamned balloons this morning!"

Leaving the DCIs to it, Stephanopoulos hustled me out of Seawoll's office and into her car, swerving out into traffic. "What d'you think is there?" she asked, businesslike again.

"If you want me to hazard a guess?" I replied, with a grimace, "I'm going to say, Strip Club of Moreau, Take Two."

"Fuck," she said feelingly, and accelerated.

XVII.

To everyone's mixed disappointment and relief, the address was an abandoned second floor flat. No _vestigum_ , nothing, not even a demon trap - but there was something in the middle of the cramped living room that chilled me to the bone anyway.

A Mickey Mouse balloon, floating against the ceiling, with the word 'Florida' written over it in neat, angular golden pen.

I backed out of the room and called Nightingale with my report. "They couldn't have found us so quickly when we were there," he said, shocked. "Or followed us through the door."

The chill of the evening had cleared my mind a bit. "They could if we were bugged."

"Any electronic equipment would have been deactivated by the act of passing through that portal, Peter."

"What about a magical bug?" I asked. "Is there something like that?"

There was a very long pause, then Nightingale said, clipped again, "Come home."

Somehow, I wasn't _too_ surprised when the magical bug - or 'geased object' as Nightingale put it - turned out to be my fucking warrant card. "I gave it to Abby to take to school for Show and Tell. It was for 'Mr Mason's' class."

Nightingale's face pinched, and he made a complicated gesture. The glow that had popped up over the warrant card when he had cast the scanning spell abruptly winked out, and he passed the card back to me.

"A mole?" Lesley asked, when Nightingale said nothing. 

"Maybe I should have let her take Peggy to class," I added dryly. Could you geas a Monster Chicken? "This doesn't make sense, by the way. Abby would have seen any spell that he would've done, if he did it in the classroom. Or what if I hadn't given her my warrant card? What if she had just taken some old vase from the house?"

"He'll have geased her shoes," Nightingale shook his head, "Or her bag. Something else. I think this was simply an opportunity that was too good not to pass up. If it _was_ Mortimer. Gods." 

Abby was duly woken up, and when she saw Nightingale holding my warrant card, she blinked rapidly, then looked over at me anxiously. I cleared my throat. "Er. About that time I lent you my warrant card-"

"It was my fault, me," Abby told Nightingale quickly, "I dint have anything to bring to class so I asked Peter for something. It ent his fault." 

"Abigail, no one's in trouble," Nightingale said patiently, "Was a spell put on this?"

"I dunt tell," Abigail's grasp of grammar was slipping further, in her agitation. "It ent Peter's fault."

"Okay," I cut in, before Nightingale could open his mouth, "I'm thinking, Mr Mason told you that police get into serious trouble if they don't have their warrant cards on them, and that he was going to put a special spell on it so nobody was going to catch me at it. Then he said that it was your little secret. Close?"

Abigail was the worst liar I had ever met. She bit down on her lower lip, and said nothing. This time, Lesley picked up one of the belt buckles from the table. "Abigail, can you demonstrate the spell that Mr Mason cast on this?"

"He's not going to kick Peter out for this, is he?" Abigail pointed at Nightingale, who blinked.

"No, of course not," Nightingale assured her. "I swear on my magic."

This seemed to satisfy Abigail somewhat, and after a few seconds, the buckle lit up in the exact same shade as my warrant card had been.

"I ent sure what it does," she said, a little sullenly. "It dunt work the way he said."

"Thank you, Abigail," Nightingale said politely. "You may go." 

She shot me one last anxious glance and left the room. "She still doesn't like you too much, boss," I said cheerfully, and Nightingale gave me a pained look.

"I'm aware of that." 

"What's this about five years?" Lesley asked, frowning. "What happens in five years?" 

"As with most of the literature on the Merlins," Nightingale said wryly, "It's unclear. But that's more or less the dividing line between the sort of war that ensues. Merlins below the age of majority are fought over. Merlins above, lead their own wars. "

"I could go look Mortimer up," I suggested. "Find out whether he's really a plant. If he doesn't have much magic-"

"Abby said that Falmer didn't have much magic," Lesley corrected. "She didn't say anything about Mortimer."

"I guess maybe we could take him by surprise," I said dubiously, "And _then_ give him a kicking." What? It's a tried and tested, traditional Met attack plan.

"No. I'm going to have to think about this first," Nightingale said wearily, and Lesley nodded, heading out. I hesitated, somewhat awkwardly.

"She'll come around," I said finally, when Nightingale didn't move. "Now that we know how the Faceless One's been getting to her." Subtle bastard. I _had_ been wondering why Abigail had managed to get so fiercely attached to everyone in the Folly - including Molly - with the sole glaring exception of Nightingale.

"She doesn't need to like me," Nightingale said, and started shuffling the things on his desk into some sort of order. "She's loyal to you, and to Lesley. That's good enough."

"By the way," I said mildly, "She's only ever going to listen to you if she likes you." I told Nightingale about the incident where Abby had threatened to call Social Services on her own father if he had taken her to one more primping hair salon, and he grimaced.

"Regardless of whether my three apprentices like me or not," he said, now with a touch of wry humour, "All of them have this problem with following simple orders. I'm beginning to think that this discipline problem has a different source." 

Despite the humour, Nightingale looked painfully strung out, and I supposed I felt a little sorry for him, which was why I walked over and leaned my hip against his desk, folding my arms. "That's possibly because all that your punishments ever involve is extra practice and Latin homework."

"I'm open to suggestions," Nightingale arched an eyebrow, then he let out a low gasp when I reached over casually and wove my fingers around his tie, giving it a light tug. "I don't see how this is going to be very educational, Peter," he added, as he stepped over obligingly, pressing his hands lightly over my hips, then stroking his thumbs over the juts of bone, when I didn't move. 

"It's just a demonstration," I noted just as mildly, "Of all the insubordination that you tend to turn a blind eye to, sir."

"Now that," Nightingale murmured, as he leaned closer, "Is something that I will indeed have to investigate at great length."


	7. Chapter 7

XVIII.

It's not common in my current line of work for me to have heard of a new Person(s) of Interest without having to go through an excruciating amount of Latin research, but in this particular case I knew exactly who to approach.

My very own snout. 

"I'm going to talk to Mama Abeni," I told Nightingale, and had the satisfaction of watching him start visibly from behind his desk. He didn't look as though he had slept, and a plate of Molly's breakfast sat cooling on a chair. The desk this morning was covered in carelessly unrolled parchments, all of which were in scripts ranging from Latin to text which I was pretty sure wasn't human. 

"She isn't willing to talk to non-Afr… ah." Sometimes I had the feeling that Nightingale was necessarily colour blind where 'our people' was concerned. Maybe after you were exposed to far too many non-human species, you just viewed humanity as a whole after a while. "You've met her before?"

"Nope. But I know where to find her, and I've met Mama Thames," I pointed out blandly, as he opened his mouth. "So it can't be too different."

"When you met Mama Thames," Nightingale corrected wearily, "You bore my name with you. Mama Abeni and I have no such… courtesies between us."

"That's good, isn't it?"

"Meaning," Nightingale added, very dryly, "We have never agreed on anything, ever. I suppose I should be grateful that you told me that you were going before you actually went?" 

"Lesley made me," I admitted. 

Lesley was still with Abigail, who had been furious this morning when informed that she wasn't going back to school for the near future. Nightingale had been bewildered, clearly having thought that Abigail would be happy that she didn't have to attend classes at a school that she often complained about - which just showed, in my opinion, how very little social interaction he'd had since he had holed up in the Folly. Since the shouting match in the foyer, you could probably cut the tension in the house with a knife - Molly had disappeared, and even Peggy and Toby had made themselves scarce.

"So there's someone in this house whom people still listen to."

"Well," I said, very mildly, "I did say that if you ever wanted to give Abby orders, she has to like you first." 

"It was a matter of personal security-"

"So, what, you're going to keep her in the Folly forever?"

"Only for a short while." 

"There's no one out there whom I'll be happier to kick in the balls," I said flatly, and Nightingale winced at the words, "Than the Faceless One, but I believe he really, for some reason, doesn't want harm to come to Abigail, at least not now. Mortimer's been there in her school since the _beginning_." 

"And so?"

"Show your hand," I shrugged. "Why not? If you want to pretend that we don't need him, then just keep calm and carry on. As to the bokors, well, Abby's got a better chance than any of us for spotting trouble."

"You think that we need him?" Nightingale's eyes narrowed.

I glowered at him. "I think that the watch that Seawoll posted on my parents is a nice gesture, but not worth a damn, sir." Nightingale paled, so I bulled on, "I know you're trying. And I'm going to try, too. But the strongest person in this house isn't you any longer, sir, and she wants to go to school. It's the only normal routine that she has left in her life."

"I understand that, Peter."

"Do you? Maybe we don't need this guy. But you're not helping _your_ case with Abby, if you want her to choose you over him. I'm damned sure that he's going to find a way to talk to her sooner or later." 

Nightingale flinched at that, then he sighed, and rubbed at his face. "I'm never really sure," he said in a wry tone, "Whether my inclination to agree with you comes from a rational standpoint or an emotional one."

"Well, I'm right," I said, trying to sound as confident as possible, "So it doesn't matter." 

Nightingale snorted, then he rolled up the parchments. "Call Abigail here, please."

Abby already had her lip pushed out stubbornly when she entered the study in front of me. When I nudged her, she muttered, "G'morning."

"Abby, do you know what Peter is going to do this morning?"

"No?" A little puzzled, clearly having expected another scolding, Abby's irritation melted into curiosity. 

"He's going to speak to Mama Abeni on your behalf. Do you-"

"No you dunt!" Abby grabbed my hand agitatedly. "She'll et your soul! Me Mum's told me stories about her!"

Your Mum, mine, and every West African Mum out there in London, to make their kids do their chores on time, I thought. "I'm a big boy, Abby. And one of the police. Can't be scared of anyone."

"And so," Nightingale added quietly, "I hope you understand how important your safety is to all of us." 

" _You_ talk to Abeni," Abby shot back. 

"This was Peter's idea. And besides, Mama Abeni has never, sadly, ever been particularly interested in my company."

Abby mulled this over a long moment. "I dunt want it," she said finally, with another suspicious look at Nightingale. "I think you made Peter do this because I wanted to go to-"

" _Abby_ ," I cut in quickly, "Nightingale doesn't _make_ me to do things. If he could," I added dryly, "I suppose his life would be a lot easier." There was a snort from the desk. "I'm doing this because I want to. You're in danger, Abby. We're all trying to help you. Him most of all. Understand?"

She chewed on her lip, and I silently wished that I had creatively disobeyed orders and gone out to give Mortimer that kicking. "Okay," she said, uncertainly. 

Nightingale glanced at the clock on his desk. "You have ten minutes to get to school before the assembly, I believe. Is there anywhere you can step out to within the school grounds where you won't be seen?"

Abby blinked at Nightingale in surprise, and he sighed. "I may not be very good at making Peter do anything I want," he said, in a resigned tone, "But he seems incredibly adept at bending _me_ to his will." This last was said with another wry twist to his mouth. "Be careful."

"Oh." Abby twisted her fingers today, blinking owlishly. "Um. I will. And," she added quickly, as though pushing out an olive branch before she had cause to regret it, "I'll write down anything weird in both of my books." 

"With the correct spelling and grammar?" Nightingale asked, in what I personally felt was pushing his luck. 

Abby grimaced. "Right spelling and grammar," she conceded. 

Another Fix was In. 

With Abby running off to grab her bag, I was about to amble out of the study as well, but Nightingale asked, "Why is it so important for you that she likes me?"

I turned to arch an eyebrow at him. "If there's one thing that the Faceless One said that was wrong," I said mildly, "It was that someday Abby was going to choose her enemies and her generals."

"Actually-" 

"Someday she'll choose her _friends_ and her enemies," I corrected, hesitated, then padded back over for a somewhat lopsided kiss, fumbled, but Nightingale breathed out shakily between us. "I'll kinda prefer it if we ended up on the same side, just saying."

XIX.

Mama Abeni was the local queen mother. Not the Queen Mother, with all the fancy dress and horses, but the technical matriarch of a loose collective of West African first, second and however many generation'd migrants and their spawn. She operated from a dusty old pawn shop in one of the seedier sides of Kentish Town that never seemed to do any business but was always running, and was a petite, rotund and wrinkled old lady with a crown of unruly gray hair. She also had a stare that could break up a fight of Kentish Towner boys from across the street, and a surprisingly heavy smack that could drive a grown boy sideways.

Thankfully, I've never had cause to encounter her until now, but like most of the kids growing up in the London West African community, I had heard stories of her growing up. Mama Abeni of the _vodun_ , who could intercede with the _lwa_ on your behalf. 

_Vodun_ , or hoodoo, or vodou, or voodoo, however you wanted to shake it, has had a lot of bad press to thank movies like Indiana Jones for. Technically, I knew that all the pinned dolls and human sacrifices were Hollywood flannel, blah, but it didn't really help my heart rate when I pushed my way through the bead curtain into Mama Abeni's shop. 

On the other hand, I hadn't actually known whether she was a fake. Nightingale's reaction had been both reassuring and terrifying, and I was a little relieved to see that there was a bored looking girl sitting at the counter where Mama Abeni usually perched.

I was a little less reassured when I recognised the girl as Olympia, one of the daughters of the other woman-shaped entity with a Mama-prefix to her name whom I had cause to be wary of. Mama Thames was a semi-maybe River Goddess who shared her stomping grounds, sort of, with a semi-maybe River God, Father Thames. I had helped them both broker a truce that neither, in my opinion, were properly grateful to me for for, and in return, Mama Thames' dragoness of a daughter, Tyburn, had provided me with a considerable amount of experiences that I would probably need therapy for. Ty and I shared a cheerful degree of mutual loathing. 

Hoping that Ty hadn't beat me to it, I nodded when Olympia rolled her eyes at me and waved me through, and I padded through into the back room. It smelled of palm oil and butter, and the walls were papered with peeling yellow wallpaper, which in turn were mostly covered by an impressive amount of variously shedding, stuffed animals and bleached animal skulls. Another couple of doors led further into the narrow house, one painted a sterile pastel blue, the other an eye-bleedingly bright neon orange.

Atmospheric.

Against the wall, there was a couch draped in an old tiger skin, and upon it, Mama Thames sat almost primly, her smile lazy and sharp as she took in my surprise. Usually, the compulsion - or glamour, as Nightingale preferred the term - that she wore around her like a cloak would be enough to make me sport a highly embarrassing public erection at this distance, but it seemed that today, Mama Thames was travelling light.

At the armchair close to the fake fireplace, Mama Abeni smiled toothlessly at me, her three remaining teeth a weirdly gleaming white. "Ah. Lily's boy."

Just like that, I felt twelve all over again, but I grit my teeth. I didn't feel a compulsion around Abeni, or the sense of power that Nightingale seemed to wear unconsciously, but there was, thanks to my Mum, a whole childhood's worth of bump-in-the-dark stories that was working in concert to give me the fucking creeps. 

Thanks, Mum. 

I cleared my throat. "I didn't realize that you had guests, Mama Abeni. I can wait outside."

"No, no, we be all friends here." Mama Abeni smiled toothlessly, and I tried not to shrink down. "You've met Mama Thames, ent you?"

"Uh." I kicked myself for stammering. "Yes."

"And what do you think?" Abeni looked me straight in the eye, and I swear - I swear that I did in fact have some sort of non-committal answer going on, but what I did say was:

"She's all right, and her daughters are mostly fine. I like Fleet, Effra and Beverley. But Tyburn's a bi-" I clapped my hand over my mouth. It felt like I had tried to move it through treacle, and I was sweating when my skin smacked hard over my lips. 

Abeni laughed, hoarse and cackling, and Mama Thames smiled lazily at me. "He's not bad," the River Goddess of London offered. "Like I said."

"How's your Mum?" Abeni asked. 

I grit my teeth, swallowed hard, and said, "She'll… urg, she's _fine_ ," I spat, and this time, Abeni smiled a thin little smile and sat up. I let out a slow gasp as the subtle compulsion abruptly left me in a cold rush. 

"You're in trouble, boy. The Narcisse bokurs have come a-calling. Dey want blood. Dey _got_ blood. Almost enough death now for a deal with the Marinette." 

I shuddered. Most of the Loa - or Lwa, depending on your place of birth/preference of spelling/semantics - were neither good nor evil, but the Marinette was generally considered to be Crazy Secret Society territory. "So they weren't from you?"

It was Mama Thames' turn to laugh, a throaty, rich and hearty sound. "Boys," she said finally, almost affectionately. "Lot of heart. Not so much brains."

"Hey," I objected, but then swallowed the rest of my quip. As things did where the Rivers were concerned, the situation was starting to run away from me. "Mama Abeni, please tell me about the bokors." 

"And what do you have to trade, Lily's boy?"

Thankfully, every Kentish West African boy knew what Mama Abeni's pleasure was. I dug the box of Cameroon cigars out of my bag and passed it to her wordlessly. She took one out, sniffed it, and put it back. "The Nightingale's been good for you, Peter."

"The cunning's all Peter's," Mama Thames disagreed, with a smile. "Though I got a truck full of beer, me."

I opened my mouth, about to say that _that_ was a one time thing, then closed it quickly. It was Abeni's turn to grin. "If you wanted to learn magic, boy, you could have come to me. Why did you have to go and learn it from a white man?"

"All right," I said, as mildly as I could, trying to keep down the treacherous laugh that was attempting to crawl out, "Firstly, this is London, and I was born here, not in Sierra Leone. Secondly, I wanted to be a policeman. The magic came incidentally. Thirdly, I like it. No spirits. Just me."

"And things explode," Abeni added, though she was still grinning.

"That too," I admitted. I won't deny that it appealed to the caveman aspect of my soul. 

"Mama Thames came here to put in a word for you, Lily's boy," Abeni continued, and I glanced over at Mama Thames in surprise, but before I could ask, she added, "Are you here for the Nightingale, or for Sarah's girl?"

Sarah Kamara, Abby's mother. "I'm investigating the bokors for multiple homicides," I said instead. "Even Mama Thames listens to the Queen's Peace. I don't see why these outsiders should go around breaking it."

"So you're here for yourself."

"I'm here for London, Mama Abeni," I said cautiously, then added, because I had always found it paid to be polite to most African women I had ever met in the course of my life, "Thanking you kindly."

"He's got good manners, like you said," Abeni nodded at Mama Thames. "That's something that I can appreciate. And they did have no business coming to London-town and spilling all that blood on streets that ent theirs. Very well, Lily's boy." She rummaged in her battered purse, and passed me a yellow slip of paper. "Names." 

"Thanks," I said, with relief. That was far more than I had hoped for. "Thank you very much, Mama."

"I could have hidden Sarah's girl," Abeni said toothily, "Mama Thames, too. Better than the Nightingale. Five years would have gone in a flash."

"But you would both have asked a favour from her," I retorted, as I tucked the paper away. "All we want is for her to grow up without psychoses." And normal, if possible. Normal would be great. 

"You want to see where the river goes," Abeni closed her purse with a snap. "The bokors - and more - want to see it stop."

I sucked in a sharp breath, suddenly all too aware that I may have been a little too reckless barging in here by myself, but in for a penny, in for a pound. "And what about you, Mama Abeni? Mama Thames?"

"Had she been a white boy, or a white girl," Abeni shrugged, as if to say, _eh_. "But she is Sarah's girl, and for that, I prefer that she becomes her own woman." 

"It's a shame," Mama Thames noted, with a sharp grin, "When a river comes to a stop before it should."

"Well then-"

"But I do not need favours from you, Peter," Mama Thames interrupted, if a little kindly. "But a favour from the Merlin, now, that I could use. Let her know. Give her my regards."

I backed out of the room quickly with my teeth clamped shut before I could promise anything, but on my way out, Olympia reached out with a bored hand, and pushed something cold and hard into my hand. I beat a tactical retreat out of the shop before I could trust myself to look at it.

It was a tiny, thumb-sized bottle of water, firmly stoppered. Puzzled, I stared blankly at it for a long moment, then shrugged and put it into my pocket. Nightingale could take a look at it later. For now, I called Stephanopoulos, and ran off the list of names for her to look up - or, I suppose, in reality, pass on to her armies of minions to input into HOLMES and pull up interesting details like registered addresses.

Then, since I was in the area anyway, I decided to check on my manor. 

My parents lived in Peckwater Estate, which comprised of blocks of rectangular, dirty grey brick flats - they had a third floor flat with a front door that opened into an open-air walkway. When I grew up, the walls of said walkway and the stairs used to be vandalised with paint and/or dogshit, sometimes both at the same time if the local kids were feeling particularly inspired, but nowadays everything had been cleaned up, leaving a stolid sense of social entropy in its place. I carefully didn't look at the plainclothes PCs staked out in the car opposite the block of flats, and headed upstairs with a low breath.

Dad was tinkling along on his keyboard, playing no apparent tune, and my Mum stared at me from the window when I shuffled through the door. "Peter!" she gasped. "Peter, you're all right?"

"Yes…?" I offered, confused, when my Mum actually shuffled over to hug me. I was even more impressed when from the sound of things, my Dad actually stopped playing in the middle of a line and hauled himself into the walkway.

"Mama Abeni came to see us," he said, sounding hushed. "She said that you were hunting bokor. Are you hiding from them?"

I hadn't called ahead to tell Abeni that I was coming, but in my line of work, nothing was really surprising to me anymore. And come to think of it, I realized, there was a little sackcloth bag, hung over the doorway. I inched over to look at it, and got a sense of palm oil, butter, and dry, crackling paper when I stood underneath it. I briefly wondered whether or not to touch it, then decided to keep my hands to myself. Abeni hadn't seemed hostile.

"What? _No_. I'm just visiting. _Visiting_ ," I stressed. My parents' anxiousness was a little unnerving - they had always taken my somewhat unusual work for the Met in their stride. "Since I was in the area."

Both of my parents abruptly relaxed. "Ah. You went to see Mama Abeni for advice," my Mum said, a little hopefully. At my cautious nod, she smiled nervously. "I'll, make her a pot of my cassava fish stew. Maybe she can speak to the-"

"There's no need, Mum, I've already given her a box of cigars," I said hastily, in case my Mum's volcanically spicy stew cauterised Mama Abeni's taste buds and turned the queen mother's notoriously fickle opinion against me. And besides, I preferred not to interact with any spirits/supernatural beings/deities unless I really, really had to.

"But-"

"I'll be fine, Mum." Merlins, bokors, the Faceless One, and more - what next? Suddenly, five years felt like it was going to be a very, very long time. "Don't worry. I've faced worse things before."


	8. Chapter 8

XX.

The Narcisse bokors, Lesley told me a little reproachfully - having been left to do the actual research while I was out calling on queen mothers - were named after their first successful human-to-zombie-to-human spell. Some poor bastard called Clairvius Narcisse in Haiti had been briefly turned into a zombie for two years to work in a plantation, after which he was allowed to go home.

I wasn't entirely sure what the point of that had been. Surely the labour shortage in those parts wasn't bad enough to warrant having to bespell people to work, rather than the usual run of kidnapping and coercion - or better, just paying the poor sod the dirt cheap minimum wage. It would have cost less than the usual paraphernalia that any self-respecting bokor needed to conduct his business, after all. Lesley had shrugged. "Maybe they just wanted to see if it could be done. And then when it worked, how long it would last."

"So we'll be facing zombies?"

"No." Lesley burst the last hope I had of having any fun at all in this case. "Puppeted humans. Nightingale thinks that's how Holland could cast spells. He was under a compulsion, and the bokors didn't care whether his brain degenerated in the process."

Stephanopoulos and her minions had zeroed in on one of the bokors by tracing his paper trail, and Max Wabanhu was found living it up in the Ritz. Hollywood had done its job - Lesley had seemed disappointed when she heard where we were going. Maybe she expected the bokors to be holed up in an oil-lamp lit house suspended over swamp water by stilts, or something.

Public places like the Ritz are probably the worst places to nick someone, if only because of the potential for crowd panic, anxious management, high profile collateral victim damage, a million possible points of exit, and the tendency for the press to either already be within five minutes' drive or, in the worst case scenario, already rooming in the hotel itself. Stephanopoulos was staring gloomily at the gorgeous entrance of the hotel when we parked illegally and jogged up to her. 

"The location's right," she began by saying. 

"We've got a confirmed sighting?"

"Take a close look at those people, Peter," Lesley said dryly. I peered. 

Everyone, including the doormen, to the people I could see seated at the lobby and the concierge, were standing absolutely, woodenly stock still. 

"I'm getting a vibe right out of the Shining," I offered, and got a glare from Lesley for my trouble. We duly called the Great Master, who picked up his phone, joy of joys. After a brief description of the situation, there was a short hesitation, then Nightingale agreed to come and take a look at it.

Lesley's hand shook a little as she hung up, and belatedly, I murmured, "You okay?" 

"Bad dreams," she replied, in the same whisper, and I could have kicked myself. When Lesley lost her face, she had lost it while being possessed by an insane spirit, after all.

"D'you want to-"

"No. I'm fine. We'll wait," Lesley murmured, which was of course the moment where one of the doormen turned to the other one, grabbed him smartly by the collar and skull, and smashed his head against the stone facade. 

Shouting, Stephanopoulos was already crossing the street, yelling to her team - _tasers, get backup, Steven-Lois-Jack back door_ and then we were inside, and if I thought that the back garden of Holland's garden was carnage, this was worse. It was a free for all murder spree, using anything from pencils to the glass edge of the bar to antique chairs, and Stephanopoulos glared at us in between knocking someone out with her truncheon to snap, "Get the fucker who's doing this!"

We didn't need her to tell us twice. The lifts were locked, but we went up the stairs, where after two floors we found the hotel chambermaid staff waiting for us, blank-eyed and grinning. Two jumped at us, hands extended into claws, and police training overrode instincts - we knocked them out quickly with our batons. Turning to the others, Lesley managed a sharp, " _No-!_ " but the other women had climbed up onto the safety rails and stepped out into space, dropping like stones.

"Fuck," I tried not to throw up at the sounds of the wet impacts beneath us, swallowing hard, but Lesley was taking the stairs two and a time now, and I hurried after her, trying not to look down. 

I made it past Lesley and out into the 13th level of the hotel only slightly winded and thoroughly pissed off, and then stumbled to a stop, blinking. Instead of the glitz and red carpets and rows of rooms, I was standing in the dark: I whirled around, but didn't see Lesley. Cautiously, I lit up a werelight, strengthening it and floating it up, but it didn't seem to hit a ceiling, and I was standing on gray, packed earth.

Okay.

Don't freak out, Peter. 

"Peter." The voice was a woman's - if a woman's voice could be shredded and sewed back together into a whispery rasp, with a sharp hooting thread, and I took a slow step back as a man shuffled into the edge of my werelight. 

It wasn't Max Wabanhu - at least, not right now: the man's arms were hunched to his side, and he walked in a crabbed, jerking movement, like an owl, his head bent at an unnatural angle, the same mad grin I had seen on Holland's face reproduced on his. He was dressed in a gray suit, like a businessman, but around his neck was hung a withered hand, chopped off at the wrist, its skin milky white, pocked with liver spots. I smelled the musk of feathers, rotting flesh and warm fur, and shivered.

Don't.

Freak.

Out.

"Mama Marinette?" My voice was only slightly high pitched.

"Nightingale's boy," Wabanhu-Marinette purred, crabbing a step closer but thankfully for my sanity, staying put. 

Some thread of insanity had me correct, "I'm Lily's boy."

Marinette cackled, low and soft, and she cocked her puppet's head left, then right. "Yes. Yes. A Mama's Boy. Tell me, Lily's boy. Where is the Merlin?"

It occurred to me in a rush of relief that the Faceless One might really only be the sole technologically/information capable ethically challenged magician out there. Or maybe the bokors were lazy or traditional. Though, then again, until I had moved into the Folly after being appointed an apprentice, Nightingale had never gotten the hang of basic tech, such as the radio, let alone Google or the Airwave. Maybe it was a magician thing.

"Mama Marinette, are you asking me for yourself, or for the horse that you're riding?"

"Does it matter?"

"I would be glad to help one of the _lwa_ ," I thought hastily, "But the bokors have invaded my land and broken its rules." I tried to frown, trying to concentrate on what I was saying, but it kept slipping from me. My werelight wobbled, and I had to really think on the _forma_ to keep it still. 

"And on what right do you call for them to obey your rules, Lily's boy?"

"Birth," I said promptly, yet again. "I was born in London-town. I'm a Prince of the City. You're no longer on Papa Legba's roads, Mama Marinette. You're in the land of Mama Thames. You're in the blood country, the river country, an iron land. Magic lives thinly here. Go. The blood they've given you for the Merlin's can't be sweet enough." 

Marinette cocked her puppet's head again, with the eerie, boneless fluidity of an owl. "Not yet, perhaps," she rasped, and abruptly, Wabanhu was straightening up, blinking in surprise and sleepy shock, even as I felt myself shaking off the familiar, empty rush of compulsion. In my pocket, Mama Thames' bottle of water broke, and I felt it soaking my hip. 

Ah. 

Before Wabanhu could recover, I slapped him off his feet with a quick _Impello_ and rolled him onto his front as he struggled, grabbing my handcuffs. I had managed to cuff one hand before Wabanhu recovered from his stupor with a howl, twisting wildly and freeing his other hand, which jumped to the horrible preserved hand around his neck and snapped one of its fingers. 

I heard a louder snap and a sudden bolt of pain that shot up from my lower back, even as everything below my waist suddenly felt unresponsive. Blinking in shock, I hit the ground hard when Wabanhu bucked, and was trying to focus on another _forma_ when Wabanhu scrambled to his feet, grinned, then stepped over and pinned my other wrists. 

"Peter Grant," Wabanhu said flatly. "That was inconvenient."

"I'm just better with the ladies," I shot back, twisting, trying to focus, then I screamed as a shock of pain burned up from my shoulder. My arm was- my _arm_ \- Wabanhu held up his left hand, now bloody to the elbows. 

"Did you think that the trick we have works only for the whole person?" he drawled, grinning. "Perhaps the Marinette will be happy with _your_ blood, if we garnish it with enough of your pain." 

He touched the skin just under my ribcage, and suddenly I could feel a contraction inside me, and I was coughing blood, choking on it, gasping. 

Anger, outrage and sheer sick loathing burned through the blanketing fog in my mind, and even as Wabanhu reached back for my leg, I managed to wrench my other hand free. Pain and sheer desperation finally focused the _forma_ in my mind. Wabanhu slowly toppled back, a look of blank surprise on his face as I managed to get off two focused fireballs through his heart, and collapsed over the gray earth.

"Mama Marinette," I gasped, as the gray earth didn't fade, blindly thrashing out, my remaining hand slipping through Wabanhu's blood, drowning in my own. "Take me home, Mama. Please. Please." My vision was going, and the pain was just turning into a numbness, and when I blacked out, I supposed that it was sort of a relief.

XXI.

I'm now familiar with waking up in hospital, sadly enough, and usually it's a series of loopy semi-awake blocks before you finally get your consciousness anchored. I was vaguely aware of the pale faces of my parents, at one point, flowers, grapes. Stephanopoulos, checking in and awkwardly putting a signed card on the side. More flowers. Lesley and Abby, both wide-eyed, white-faced. Dr Walid. And Nightingale, shoulders bent, head bowed, hunched in a chair as though all the vigour of his borrowed lifespan was leaving him.

I didn't process. I just slept. 

When I finally came to, there was a wild moment where I wondered if I was dreaming. The oxygen mask was off, and the Faceless One was sitting on a chair beside my bed, reading a newspaper, fucking casual as you please. Even drugged, I couldn't place my attention on his face for long, my eyes dropping down to the three piece black suit that he wore, the white gloves over his hands. With a cane, he would look just like any third rate music hall magician, and when I started to laugh, perhaps a little hysterically, the Faceless One glanced up at me, closed the newspaper, folded it neatly, and placed it on the side table. 

"You should be flattered," the Faceless One began by saying. "When Ettersburg didn't break Thomas, I thought that nothing could crack him." 

"Where-" I tried, with a rasp, and the Faceless One ignored me. "Come… to laugh?"

"Hardly. I've come to trade."

"Fuck… you-"

"Not with _you_ ," the Faceless One said, a touch impatiently. "Now hush. It's almost time, and I must admit, I'm a little… excited. It's been a while since I've been excited over anything." 

I wondered dimly if I was too drugged to _Impello_ the Faceless One into the wall, of which the answer was, in fact, 'yes'. Trying to focus on the call button, I weakly moved up my wrist - and then, to my dull horror, Abby abruptly stepped out of nothing and into the room. She was dressed in her dinner frock, with her nice shoes, and her lower lip was pushed out, her unruly hair tied up as severely as it was allowed over her back. She looked like she was dressed for battle, and even as I tried weakly to indicate that she should leave, I only managed to make a croaking noise.

The Faceless one made an elaborate, elegant gesture in my direction. "Awake and breathing. As promised."

"Lesley said that you're a bad person," Abby started off by saying, and instead of blasting the Faceless One into the wall, she walked over and sat down on the bed beside me, her feet dangling, grasping my hand and folding it over her lap. 

"He's a… f-n asshole," I managed to rasp, "G'out of here-"

"But Mr Mason said that you could fix Peter," Abby continued, ignoring me, and it took a dull and fuzzy moment before the anger managed to clear off some of the drugs, and I tried to struggle up, gasping from the effort.

"And I can," the Faceless One said smoothly. "And more besides."

"How come you can do it, and Nightingale can't?"

"His hands are tied by a lot of rules. Mine aren't." 

Abby chewed on her lower lip, kicking out her feet. "What do you want? For fixing Peter?"

"Why, nothing. All I wanted, dear girl, was to have a chance to talk to you. We're talking. I'm happy." 

"… Okay," Abby's creep meter, I could tell to my relief, was finally reaching its limit. "Fix Peter and maybe we'll talk some more." 

The Faceless One got to his feet, and pulled away the curtain behind him, to reveal a gagged and blindfolded African man, strapped to a wheelchair. Just like Wabanhu, he wore a gray suit, but this time, the fetish around his neck was a withered albino ear. Abby stiffened, and got a sharp laugh from the Faceless One. 

"The Narcisse bokor. Artists, in their own way." The Faceless One patted the struggling, whimpering man proprietarily on the head. "They focus their magic on fetishes, made up of the body parts of albinos, and as such, surpass a lot of the physiological limits that the rest of us practitioners have. I've never quite figured out how it works precisely. One of his friends hurt Peter. Isn't that right, Constable?"

"Abby," I whispered, "Abby, go."

"Why did they do it?" 

"They want to kill you, my dear." The Faceless One wheeled the bokor closer. "They fear what you bring to this world. If they can get to you through your friends, or your family, they won't hesitate." 

Abby studied the wriggling bokor with a frown, then she glanced back to the Faceless One. "How does this fix Peter?"

"Nightingale knows how regenerative magic works, of course. But he won't do it. A man with principles," the Faceless One said in a drawl, "Is the most dangerous sort of man of all." 

"Abby-"

"You got the man who did this to you," Abby said, her voice shaking now, though not with tears, I realized. With fury. "But he hurt you bad before he was done, Peter. Everyone left you in here to _die_. Even Lesley. Even _Nightingale_. But I won't. I won't."

"You've lost a lot of blood. Suffered a considerable amount of internal damage," the Faceless One supplied. "The doctors didn't expect you to wake up, and without a little help from me, I think you never would have. Lucky for you, you have a good friend in Abby here, hmm?"

"Abby, no-"

"I want to watch, me, I'm not afraid," Abby told the Faceless One defiantly. "Do it."

I could feel the shape of the _forma_ in the air even before the Faceless one said anything, and after a second, the trapped bokor started to scream through his gags. Abby recoiled with a gasp, and I watched in horror as the bokor's arm began to wither, drying up and turning oily, then dry, then shrivelling - and then it was my turn to scream as the pain in my shoulder, stomach and spine abruptly shot through even the drugs.

"You're hurting him!" Abby screamed at the Faceless One, and she was crouched on the bed, her palms blazing with a sudden, searing heat, but the Faceless One merely glanced at her and grabbed a spoon from the side table, pushing it into my mouth to protect my tongue, then holding me down. 

"Regenerative magic," the Faceless One said, as though the most powerful magician I had ever met wasn't threatening to roast him, "Is a matter of a transfer of life forces, Abigail. You _did_ want to watch."

The flames winked out, and Abby and I watched, wide-eyed, as bones and flesh and skin abruptly sprouted through bandages, weaving themselves together like some sort of horrific puzzle piece, fitting together. Suddenly, I could feel my legs again, feel the blood pushing through and cramping my thighs, feel the pulsing, agonising pain under my ribs fade, and fade again, until it was numb. I shakily held up my right hand, now whole again, turning the palm over and back, and through my shock, I could hear a thumping sound and muffled shouts from the outside. The alarm had been raised. 

The Faceless One sketched out a mocking bow. Beside him, the bokor continued to thrash, moaning dully, his hand and legs withered. There was a rank smell in the air - he had lost control of his bowels during the transfer. I knew, with a numb certainty, that the poor bastard was going to die soon. 

Abby hugged me tightly as I spat out the spoon, burying her face in my neck, even as I hugged her back and glared at the Faceless One. "Stay away from her."

"If I did," the Faceless One tapped the writhing man's shoulder, "You would be dead." 

"It's a known risk. Comes with the profession. What do you want?"

"Nothing. Simply to serve. After all, Miss Abigail is the Merlin. She instructs. She is not instructed."

"You-"

"Peter," Abby looked up, rubbing at her eyes, then she seemed to steel herself to look at the bokor's wasted body. "Were there more of them?"

I nodded cautiously. "But we're handling it."

"Were you?" Abby shot me a wan smile, then she lifted her chin, looking back to the Faceless One. "I want the rest of them gone."

"With pleasure."

"And you better go too," she added, gesturing. A mirror door opened next to the Faceless One. "That'll take you outside." When he hesitated, she growled, "Go!" 

To my surprise, the Faceless One actually inclined his head, and stepped through the door. Abby closed the portal, then her stern face collapsed, and she buried her face back in my shoulder for another fit of sobs. I patted her for a while, then simply held her, watching as the bokor's struggles weakened, further and further, until he was still.


	9. Chapter 9

XXII.

Until this day I still have no real idea of the sort of Fix that Nightingale put in place to get me discharged so quickly. Abby wouldn't let go of me, so it was either get discharged ASAP or let her stay the night in the hospital, but whatever it was, I didn't feel like objecting. I just wanted to get out of there.

Getting discharged was mostly a blur, but I do remember Dr Walid wheeling the corpse of the bokor away as Lesley bundled us into the Jag, and most of all, I remember Nightingale's ashen face, naked with a weird sort of fierce joy and regret, when he had first charged into the room and realized what Abby had done.

Once home, Nightingale shot me a long and lingering look, as though trying to memorise every detail, then he said, quietly, "Abigail, may I speak to you privately?"

Abby flinched, then she slipped her hand out of mine and followed Nightingale into a side room, closing the door behind her. Behind the stair, I could see Molly peering worriedly out at us, Toby at her feet, Peggy clutched awkwardly in her arms and flapping ineffectively, but she ducked out of sight. 

"C'mon," Lesley said, unsteadily. "Let's get you upstairs."

"Lesley," I asked, and my voice seemed distant even to me, "Was I really going to die?" 

"You're an _idiot_ ," she snapped, punched me in the shoulder, then hugged me so tightly I yelped. "The only reason why I'm not crying," she muttered, "Is that it got tired after a day or so."

"I appreciate the knowledge that I'm only worth crying over for a day or so," I tried replying lightly, and got another punch for my trouble. "Also, I think we really should have given Mortimer that kicking." 

I told her what had happened as we went up to our rooms, and at the end, she hesitated at her door, hugging herself. I waited for a moment, but nothing came, so I started towards my room, and she burst out, "Regenerative magic."

I had been afraid of this. After all, I had always thought, deep down, that the only reason Lesley worked so hard at magic was so that she could find a way to fix her ruined face. "Yeah."

Lesley hugged herself tighter, silent, and I tried, "Lesley, there's other ways, I'm sure. Nightingale said, magic's different over cultures. The Chinese don't use _forma_ like we do. And there's-"

"Sure," she said, a little listlessly, then she straightened up. "I wouldn't have done it this way," she said softly, then she repeated her resolve, more firmly.

"I know, Lesley. I know." 

I cleaned up in a daze and was just about to get under the blankets when there was a knock on the door to my room. Rubbing my eyes and hoping it wasn't Lesley wanting to talk some more, I headed over and opened it. Nightingale smiled wanly at me.

"Uh," I managed, then, "Something happened?"

"No, no." Nightingale visibly struggled for a moment, then, "No, I'll speak to you in the morning. You should rest." 

"Hey, come here." I yanked at his arm, and he didn't move for a moment, then reluctantly allowed himself to be pulled into the room. I nudged the door shut, grabbed his shirt collar, and kissed him with a fumbled urgency that soon burned breathless. We were panting by the time I tasted salt - tears? - and Nightingale's eyes were reddened when I pulled back to look at him. "You look like shit, sir," I noted mildly. 

He laughed, a brittle sound that made the hair on the back of my neck prickle. Nightingale was uncharacteristically rumpled, as though he had slept in his suit, and he looked pale and drawn, as though he hadn't slept well for days. His hands shook a little as they closed over my hips, then he brought them up, a little nervously, to press the palms over my cheeks. 

"I don't think that I'm dreaming," he said, wonderingly, then winced as I pinched him hard on the arm. 

"Nope."

"Your heart stopped briefly in the operating room. When you revived, I thought - and brain function - But even so, I… it wasn't enough," Nightingale's hands dropped down, to press under my ribs, over my belly. "There had been too much damage."

"What did you talk to Abby about?" I asked, trying to change the subject. I definitely didn't want to know more about my brush with certain death.

"I asked her what happened. She told me that in lieu of my disinclination to use magic to save your life, she approached the Faceless One for help. She asked Lesley obliquely about him, but not enough to make Lesley suspect that she was about to make some sort of deal with him. She says, in addition, that she made no such deal, which I would find remarkable in the extreme if that were true." 

"She's right," I agreed, thinking it over. "Don't ask me why, but he just wanted to talk. Also, she asked him to get rid of the other Narcisse bokors, and he agreed, just like that. It was weird."

Nightingale nodded, very slowly. "I must admit that I have no idea what his game is."

"I think he knew you from before," I said, without thinking, and when Nightingale frowned at me, I added, "Mask? Also, he mentioned Ettersburg, and he also referred to you as 'Thomas'." 

"That spell that he did," Nightingale said, after an uneasy moment. "It's a final form spell. And it was one of the few spells where we were given a choice as to whether we wished to learn it. It's… well, it's hardly an ethical spell, and it has side effects with the use of animals. It was never meant to bind major wounds."

"Did you learn it?"

"No, of course not." Nightingale hesitated again, with another look at me. "Most of us declined. Only two students from my year declared themselves too curious. David Mellenby and Geoffrey Wheatcroft."

Both dead. Former in Ettersburg - which was some sort of World War II catastrophic event for practitioners of which details I was still unclear - and dear Mr Wheatcroft, whose idea of fun when teaching theology in Magdalen College, Oxford, had included creating a little dining club full of ethically challenged future magicians called the Little Crocodiles. 

"Do you remember what Wheatcroft's _signare_ was?" I asked, as a thought nosed at me carefully. I prodded back.

"No. We were too young then to have developed one. And after graduation, I never associated very much with him, or with David: I barely even remember what they were like. Why?"

"Hm." I stroked Nightingale's arms absently. "You went to Wheatcroft's funeral pretending to be your son. I'm wondering if - maybe - there was something else in the coffin that was buried." As to the phone call - a magical voice modulator, perhaps?

Nightingale's eyes narrowed sharply. "But if he was alive, he would be-"

"Really old? Wow. What a coincidence." I poked Nightingale's nose. 

"I'll get Postmartin to make enquiries," Nightingale said doubtfully. "It would explain a few things. And…" He hesitated, again, "When Abby said that the Faceless One implied that I could heal you… I'm sorry, Peter. I really could not. And… even had I known the _forma_ , I… I think that I still would not have cast it. Not even for your sake." 

"Well, good," I said, blinking, "Because if you had done it, the first thing I would've done when I got up would be to break your nose." 

Nightingale stared at me, startled, then he let out a low laugh, pressing his lips to my forehead. "But I would have been tempted," he murmured, after a while. "That was why I never learned the spell. I knew that someday I would be sorely tempted." 

"Well," I tried to lighten the mood, "You never struck me as the human sacrificing type."

"To use a…? No, Peter, Had I known the spell, I would have used myself as a conduit. To save your life, I… if the Merlin had not existed-"

I kissed him to shut him up, which seemed like the right thing to do, and his shoulders started to shake, so I kept it up, each slow kiss lasting until our lungs burned for air before we gasped and shared another, until he was calm again. I thought about worming a promise out of Nightingale never to do it anyway, but what would have been the point? Even if Abby had never been born, even if Nightingale had known the spell - it would have been a little hypocritical. After all, if I was in his shoes, would I have used it to save his life? 

The answer was a definite _yes_ , I knew, as he breathed a shaky moan between us and pressed back roughly, as though trying to drink me down. But I probably would have had slightly less of an ethical problem using one of the bokors. Maybe. The thought was an ugly and twisted one, snaked around my conscience, and I tried not to look too closely. 

No. It wasn't something that an officer of the Metropolitan Police would do. I clung to that thought, to the memory of my badge. Tomorrow I would probably look back and laugh, but now it felt like the ledge before freefall.

"You really should be resting," Nightingale murmured finally, reluctantly. 

"Logic is sound," I agreed, and oh hell, why not. I nearly died, after all. "Why don't you stay and make sure that I do?" Not the best of lead in lines. I blamed the drug therapy. 

Nightingale actually tensed up. "It's hardly appropriate-"

"Maybe a hundred years ago, sure."

"Given our positions-"

"'Positions'? Are you really going to go there?" I nipped his jaw, and he hissed out a gasp. "I don't want to be alone tonight," I added, more quietly, and this time, he let me pull him towards the bed, mumbling protests all the way. Nightingale refused to strip down past his shirt, and I rolled my eyes as I dragged him down onto the sheets, my own shirt tossed somewhere on the floor with our shoes. 

The low, hungry sound of appreciation that Nightingale made as he held himself up and looked me over was pretty good for the ego. When you're still anything below DCI level, an ambitious Constable would work out, if only because being too slow to catch up with a runner tended to be an embarrassing footnote to any career case. 

After making DCI, you let Constables and other lesser police life forms do the running. When I ran my hands curiously down Nightingale's flanks, I didn't feel handles of flab, though. Maybe magic did for all the fat from Molly's cooking: whatever it was that kept Nightingale floating eternally at his age also kept him from dying from a heart attack from all that bacon and suet.

"Up here," I suggested, when Nightingale seemed content to look, and I had to drag him up to get some attention. We kissed again, slow, the buttons of his shirt pressed over my skin, then Nightingale groaned as I shifted awkwardly and ended up rubbing my thigh up between his legs. 

It wasn't as weird as I thought it would be, coming into intimate contact with another guy's junk, and Nightingale was hard, a solid weight of heat through his dress pants and my pjs. He let out another low sound, but didn't move, and eventually, trying not to roll my eyes, I got my hand between us for a feel. Definitely less weird than I thought, especially when I squeezed experimentally and Nightingale jerked against me with a gasp.

Nightingale's belt buckle was fucking fiddly, and judging from the raw moan that Nightingale made when I groped for it, I probably wasn't going to get any help from him. This time he kissed - finally - like he wasn't kissing a ghost, all teasing nips and swirling licks, but he still whined and pulled back when I finally got the belt free and got my hand down the front of his pants. 

It couldn't have been too comfortable, too dry even with the leaking slick from the thick head, but Nightingale had his hands clenched tight in the pillows, blank and glazed with pleasure as I managed to get an angle going, clenching tight at the base and fisting up. When he came it was messy and wet, and Nightingale buried his cry against my shoulder, his shirt sticking to his back from sweat.

I gingerly wiped my hand on the sheets - poor Molly - and tugged him up for a sloppy kiss. After the second one, Nightingale stirred enough to swipe his hand down, towards my pants, but I caught it without thinking. He jerked up, with a querying look, and I frowned for a moment before processing. 

"Um," I cleared my throat, and came up with a blank. How do you say 'too fast' in a masculine manner? Thankfully, Nightingale seemed to understand, anyway: he sank back down, with a tentative kiss on my forehead that I tipped into another sloppy one, and he relaxed. I squirmed until we were more or less both comfortable and somehow, despite everything, managed to sleep. It was dreamless, and warm, and smelled like starch and magic and strength.

XXIII.

The morning was awkward. Nightingale was either a heavy sleeper or all the past weeks of uneven sleeping had finally taken its toll: I woke up pinned and sweating, and despite pointed prods and squirming couldn't get free from the arm curled around my waist.

When the door inevitably opened, I was still partly undressed and ineffectively in bed, and as such, when Molly shot me an accusing look from the door frame, I could only shrug. "Going to be late for breakfast. Sorry." What was I meant to say? Sorry, the immortal Wizard whom you obviously have a really unhealthy crush on is gay? Please stop oversalting my cocoa? 

Molly seemed to take eternity to unfreeze herself from the door, then she bolted, at which point Toby seemed to decide to belatedly welcome me home by launching himself onto the bed out of nowhere and burrowing down at the foot of it, barking. As I was trying to not-so-gently nudge the dog off with my foot, Peggy scuttled into the room, hissing, and clambered up the bedframe, mantling at a barking Toby and shaking out its wings. 

Lesley peeked into the room, took it in, and asked, very dryly, "Want me to close the door?"

"Just… make sure Abby doesn't come looking for the stupid dinosaur." 

"She's gone down for breakfast." 

"Close the door then. Um. Thanks." I managed to wiggle out of Nightingale's grip, shoo Toby off the bed, ineffectively attempt to grab and strangle Peggy, which flew around the room, squawking angrily, and eventually I just marched off to clean up and get dressed. 

When I got back into the bedroom, Nightingale was yawning, but still looked far too drowsy, so I kissed him on the temple and left him to it, though I did manage to grab Peggy on the way out. Toby scooted past, all but bouncing down the steps in its haste, and got to breakfast just in time to beg a scrap of sausage off Abby.

"Your chicken." I pushed Peggy at Abby, which went instantly pliant when she took the hissing, clawing thing off my hands. 

"She's a microraptor," Abby corrected, a little reproachfully. "M zhaoianus. Nightingale said so."

I eyed the dinosaur carefully as I sat down for breakfast, and prepared myself for a salt bomb when I sipped my coffee. No salt. Perfect coffee. I looked around, but Molly was nowhere to be seen, so I quickly helped myself to some toast and fried eggs. I was _starving_. 

"Today's Saturday," Abby added, fiddling with her toast with Peggy on her lap, then she mumbled, "Nightingale said that I could take you and Lesley and go see another Disneyland, but I guess you're going to want to see your Mum and Dad."

"Yeah. Maybe tomorrow." I wasn't sure how that was going to go. Also, I was going to have to arrange something nice to be delivered to Mama Thames. "Uh. Did he yell at you last night?"

"Nope," Abby looked uncomfortable, pushing her food around the plate for a long moment, then she burst out, "I wish that he did. He wasn't even mad. I dunt know. He's been funny since you been in hospital." Uncertainly, she forced herself to look up at me. "Was what I did right? Asking the Faceless One to get rid of the other bokors?"

"What do you think, Abby?"

"I dunt know," she said, uncomfortably. "I dunt." 

Okay. That was a start. "What did you think of the Faceless One?"

"There's something wrong about him," she said promptly, then hesitated, and added, cautiously, "Lesley said he tried to kill you before."

"Yep," I noted, watching her carefully. "I got help. A police sniper shot him. If that hadn't happened, I would have died."

Abby shuddered, and stopped even trying to play with her food, squirming on her chair as I finished my toast, then she burst out, "D'you want me to tell him to stop? Stop hunting the bokors?"

I personally felt that maybe two of my current biggest problems might actually stand to solve each other, but that wasn't my professional opinion. "It depends," I said at last, "Whether you still want to be a cop, Abby. Cops don't employ assassins. We catch bad guys, and, uh, put them in jail." I decided not to add that I really rather doubted Nightingale had ever put anyone - or anything - in jail, save maybe Holland, but Processing didn't really count.

Abby looked even more uncomfortable, and actually hugged Peggy, which squawked indignantly but, I noted sourly, didn't try to disembowel its owner. "I dunt know what to do, Peter," she said finally, plaintively. "Tell me."

"It's not for me to tell and you to follow," I said, as carefully as I could, willing her to listen. "Talk to other people. Lesley. Your Mum, if you can. Nightingale. Hell, I think even DI Stephanopoulos would talk to you if you asked her, though you probably should clear that with Nightingale first. You've got to figure out which people you should really be listening to. And you've got to decide for yourself what to do next." 

"But that's hard," Abby complained. "How do I know if I done the right thing, me?" 

"It's not something that you can magic up," I reached over to pat her wrist. "Hell, you can't use magic to solve most of the real problems you'll come across as you grow up. You've just got to learn to deal the hard way, like the rest of us." 

"You're alive," Abby grasped my hand, letting go of Peggy, which scooted hurriedly under the table. "This really should've been the right thing to do. Right?"

"Abby, I'm glad that I'm alive," And whole. "But the way that it was done? Nothing was right about _that_. You didn't know what he was going to do. But if you had-"

"If it would have saved your _life_ -"

"If you had," I forged on, "Then you should have let me go, Abby. People die. You can't save everyone, and you shouldn't. Not like this. Sure. That bokor wanted to kill us. But even putting aside the fact that he was still human, what if you run out of convenient enemies someday, hm? Would you just pick someone off the street? It's got to stop somewhere." 

"… Okay," Abby was staring at her hands now, unhappily. "I'm going to have a think about this. I'll talk to people."

"Sure," I said, as blandly as I could, though I felt a brief bubble of mild panic. Hopefully, I hadn't just unleashed Pandora's box.


	10. Chapter 10

XXIV.

I did the rounds. My parents were rather less hysterical than I had steeled myself for, and then my Mum let slip that she had sent Mama Abeni that pot of cassava fish stew anyway, and seemed to have assumed that the queen mother had worked her dubious magic behind the scenes.

I went to Mama Abeni's, just to check that she hadn't imploded. "Careless," she told me, when I ducked into her shop, perched behind the cloudy glass counter. "Careless but lucky."

"How do you counter what he did with the fetish?" I asked, curious, and was treated to a long and rambling, mostly irrelevant dissertation about fetish preparation, use and choice. I wasn't any much wiser by the time I slunk out, got to my uncle's, packed as many crates of Nigerian One Lager beer into the back of the Ford, and drove off to visit Mama Thames. 

After that, I poked by Belgravia nick, and promptly got bundled into Seawoll's office, where Seawoll and Stephanopoulos both looked me up and down as though they'd just been told that I had really been born on Mars. 

"Damn," Seawoll said, finally.

"Damn," Stephanopoulos agreed.

"Well, that was a fucking waste of five pounds." 

"We bought you a nice card. Everyone signed it," Stephanopoulos elaborated, when I glanced over at her, then she cracked the faintest of curls to her mouth.

"I've got it on my side table. Whenever I need to remember that I'm actually appreciated."

Seawoll grunted. "Get Thomas to teach you more tricks, Grant. Normal PCs dying to… other means? That's fucked. But our magic PCs? That's just embarrassing."

DCI Seawoll had just said the word 'magic'. I waited a couple of seconds, just to see if the world was ending. "I'll keep that in mind, sir." 

"Was it…" Stephanopoulos uncharacteristically hesitated. "Was it Abigail?" She made a gesture with her hands, as if to signify _abracadabra_.

"Nope. Err. Not really." It was my turn to hesitate, then I decided to give them the heads up anyway. "There's going to be some in-fighting soon," I said, a little cautiously. "Between, uh, the bokors. Their bodies are probably going to be pretty easy to ID, what with the dried albino body part jewellery."

Seawoll shrugged. "Better them than us," he said baldly, and then, to my surprise, added gruffly, "Take better fucking care of yourself, son."

I mentioned Abby's problem obliquely to Stephanopoulos on the way out, and she agreed, sounding a little puzzled, to hear out the occasional question if she had to. "I don't think I'm qualified to discuss any of the, uh, 'other means' stuff," she said, as I was about to get into my car. 

"She's got other people for that," I pointed out. "But she needs a lot of help with everything else."

Stephanopoulos nibbled absently on her lower lip. "D'you mind if I get my governor in on this?"

"Abby hasn't met him before," I shrugged. "I think she'll be more interested in your opinion, rather than a second hand one." 

The DI sighed, then she cracked another not-quite smile. "When I was her age, all I had for counselling were a couple of friends and a diary." 

"But the most that could had happened if there was a problem is maybe a bit of light arson or… something," I amended awkwardly. One of the inside Met not-jokes about Stephanopoulos began with 'Did you know what happened to the last PC who thought that Stephanopoulos couldn't do X?' Like most of the not-jokes, it wasn't funny. 

"Okay," she said doubtfully. "But when this cools down a bit, maybe you should take her over to Belgravia nick. Seawoll does want to meet her."

I got back around time for afternoon tea, and it was a little of a shock to find the Faceless One at the table, taking tea with Nightingale, who was glaring at him from across a spread of macarons and teacakes. Abigail sat on one side of Nightingale, looking a bit nervous, and Lesley on the other. 

"Okay," I said, blinking, "Did I miss something?"

"He et a biscuit," Abigail pointed at the Faceless One, "And then Nightingale was okay." Her tone was slightly accusing, as though she suspected me of hiding said method of biscuit dispute resolution from her all along. 

"When you eat someone's food in his or her house," I pulled back a chair - the only one left was closest to the Faceless One - "You're obligated to them. Maybe you should make him jump off a really high cliff, sir," I suggested.

Abby's eyes widened slightly, but Nightingale merely shot me a pained look. "Half an hour ago," Nightingale said neutrally, "This man presented himself at our front entrance."

"I think that we were overdue for a bit of a chat," the Faceless Man drawled, "But Miss Abigail was insistent on everyone being present. Since you were not in contact, in the meantime, I sought to allay a few of Thomas' suspicions." 

My latest phone had suffered yet another unfortunate demise during the smackdown in the Ritz. "Oh. Well. I'm here now," I said, still frowning, "Though if you came here to make nice and shake hands, you're going to be painfully disappointed."

The Faceless One ignored me, turning back to Nightingale. "When I said that the bokors were a problem greater than just one of us could handle, I did mean it. We've… solved two more of their number, but the rest have put aside their usual squabbles and have banded up, despite our efforts to sow confusion. They're underground, I believe."

"Wow," I said archly, "And you were so confident that night that you could take them, too. My heart bleeds."

The Faceless One continued to pretend that I didn't exist, sipping at his tea. There was a slight blur to his illusion when I tried to stare, but eventually, my eyes watered so much that I had to look away. "I did try to elaborate on my position, but since Miss Abigail instructed me to leave, I did so." 

"Underground, where?" Nightingale frowned. 

"They're in the abandoned railway network. The catacombs," the Faceless One said briskly. "My resources may be enough - just enough - to attend to the bokors above ground, if they remained divided and distracted by Miss Abigail, but united, in the dark roads, I cannot face them." 

I was going to say something sardonic, but the Faceless One turned to regard me, and I remembered the gray earth, and the endless dark void of the illusion, and had to look away, fighting to keep my hand steady as I picked up a biscuit. When I glanced up, Nightingale was watching me silently, his face carefully blank, then he turned back to the Faceless One. 

"You want a referral to the Quiet People?"

The Quiet People were a weird, quasi human-ish race of people who lived under London, in the abandoned spaces, and had carved out quite a large, extremely unhygienic living space for themselves under an upmarket area of London. It was like that Neil Gaiman book, except with fewer giant monsters, labyrinths, monks and angels. There were floating markets, though. Those were fun. Members of the Met, magical or not, stood out there like sore thumbs. 

"Their assistance would be optimal. Otherwise, a guide would be sufficient." the Faceless One allowed. "I wish to be introduced to the entity known as Ten-Tons." 

Matthew Ten-Tons, the default king of the Quiet People, was some sort of genius loci, like Mama Thames. In a way, I sort of liked him: his power felt clean, earth and steam, untouched by death like many of the others were. Bristling, I was waiting for Nightingale to find a firmer way to say 'out of the question', but what he actually said was, "Perhaps something can be arranged."

" _What_ ," Lesley and I objected, at the same time, then continued to try and talk over each other.

"You _can't_ be thinking of trusting him-"

"What if he does something to the Quiet People-"

"Lesley, Peter," Nightingale cut in, sternly. 

"Who's this person?" Abby asked, a little awkwardly. 

"He's a… sort of king," I tried, when no one seemed inclined to answer. "Lives underground. Not a bad chap."

"Oh. And he can help?" Abby didn't wait for an answer. "Then I want to meet him."

"No," Nightingale and the Faceless One said at once, and then glowered at each other over the teacake spread. I would have laughed, if I wasn't immediately fascinated with the possibility of all out thaumaturgical warfare breaking out over afternoon tea, biscuit obligation or not. 

Abby, however, had no such apparent foresight, and giggled. She immediately stifled it, looking guilty, but the tension eased, both Master magicians reluctantly circling down from their pedestals. I glanced over at Lesley, who lifted a shoulder into a light shrug. 

"Peter said he was nice," Abby continued, still oblivious.

"He _may_ be," Nightingale corrected. He had always been touchy over the matter of the Quiet People, especially when I had chosen to resolve it by heading in to see Ten-Tons with just Lesley, Zach and a female FBI agent as back-up. "But regardless of whether Ten-Tons is friendly, ah…"

"London has a lot of genius loci," the Faceless One continued when Nightingale trailed off, "Nonhuman entities of power. And the order by which you pay your respects to them will have import." When Abby looked puzzled, he added, dryly, "The first genius loci you visit will see it as a favour. Others may see their lack of preference as an insult."

"Oh, that." Abby dug briefly in the pockets of her jacket, and put a small cork on the table. "I already seen one of them." 

It was from Mama Thames' bottle. Judging from the blank look of surprise on Nightingale's face, I guessed that its reappearance in Abby's hands was a surprise. Somehow, I wasn't shocked in the least. I supposed I would have been more astonished if Mama Thames had really given me protection out of the goodness of her heart.

"I tried her first," Abby explained. "It was something that protected you where… where you went, Peter," she groped briefly for words. "It was from this. I could see it. I thought maybe she could help you. But she said that she couldn't do the sort of healing that I needed. She was nice," Abby added defensively, when we were still all silent.

"Honestly, Thomas," the Faceless One said finally, "Are you truly so inept at watching your charges?"

"Abby, did you eat anything at Mama Thames'?" Nightingale asked, tense, and when Abby shook her head, he exhaled in relief. "Well. Perhaps that waives the problem of propriety."

"You want Abby to meet Ten-Tons?" Lesley asked, a little incredulous.

"Eventually, yes. And she's survived Mama Thames," Nightingale said wryly. "She will need to make alli- _friends_ ," he corrected himself, with a glance over at me. "Although, I should think that a visit to Father Thames beforehand would be more appropriate. In this particular instance, however, I doubt that there's any real necessity for Abby to visit the genius loci." He grimaced slightly. "Any _other_ genius loci." 

"Can Father Thames help us with this problem?" Abby asked.

"Not precisely-"

"Then we see someone who can," Abby said firmly.

The Faceless One's mask was as blurred as ever, but I got the feeling that the arsehole was smirking. "As much as I dislike agreeing with Thomas," he said, however, "Perhaps you should save such a visit for an unavoidable eventuality, Miss Abigail: avoid dealings with the genius loci until absolutely necessary. I can manage Ten-Tons by myself. This has been _very_ pleasant," he drawled, getting to his feet. "But I really must be going. Contact me again when you have a guide."

XXV.

"I do know him from before," Nightingale mused, distracted during practice after tea. "From somewhere."

We were working on the next part of _Transisto_ : summoning stuff from inside stuff. I had mastered the trick of getting whatever it was out; but hadn't figured out how to stop the new side effect of said item appearing at light speed and smashing against the wall beyond. At this rate, I was beginning to miss the goop. At least goop didn't threaten you with concussion.

"Is that why the two of you only had a bit of light verbal fencing rather than," I gestured vaguely, trying to convey the sense of two people throwing everything and the metaphorical magical kitchen sink at each other. 

Nightingale raised his eyebrows. "Abigail requested that he be allowed entry, and afterwards, he put himself under an obligation." 

"But you still haven't figured out what his game is?"

"Not in the slightest." Nightingale grimaced. "Although it's possible that he's trying to inveigle Abigail to turn against us."

"Is that a word?"

"I… what?" Thrown briefly off track, Nightingale blinked for a moment until I grinned, then he shook his head slowly and continued, "Which seems to be the case, except it feels… trite." 

"Not his style?"

"Not to date." 

I had to agree. The Faceless One had operated pretty much under Nightingale's nose until the whole business of the jazz vampires had blown his cover, and even then, all we had ever found of his enterprise had been an abandoned safe house. If he had only wanted to turn Abby against us, he probably could have done so without ever showing us his hand. 

"Is it Wheatcroft?" I asked. "How the hell does he keep that spell on his face up?"

"It isn't a spell," Nightingale corrected. "It's an artefact. I haven't seen its like before, but I've heard that it used to be popular with sorcerers in China in the Ming period. As to your first question, no, I remain uncertain." 

The distracted way Nightingale said this made me frown at him and stop concentrating on the shape of the apple inside the box at the far end of the room. "You've gone from not wanting Abigail to talk to this guy for five minutes to letting him come to tea at the Folly." 

"I'm aware that he's dangerous-"

"He tried to make me jump off a roof once!"

"-and for that," Nightingale continued quietly, "He will someday be paid in full. But for now, I reluctantly concede that we may need assistance against the bokors."

"And later? If more things like the bokors come? We turn back to him for help? He killed a lot of people, sir. I don't know what sort of arrangement you have with the Commissioner, but you're still with the Met. We don't work with murderers."

Nightingale was openly confused. "The last time that I asked you if we needed the Faceless One, you didn't give me an answer."

"Because I thought that you knew the right one already," I retorted. "And besides, I wasn't trying to make a point about him, I was trying to make a point about _Abby_."

Nightingale stared at me for a long moment, then his jaw clenched, and he glanced away, looking towards the box. "I can't watch you die again, Peter," he said finally, softly. 

There was something there, prodding at my brain, but it didn't seem to lead anywhere when I prodded back. I inched over, pressing my hands hesitantly on Nightingale's arms, and at the first brushing kiss he curled his hands up over my hips, winding to the small of my back. "You're gonna have to, someday," I told him, and felt him shudder. "Shh. Hey. You don't age, and I will. And anyway," I added, more playfully, when Nightingale didn't say anything, "Dying of old age in bed is so last century. If I die, I want to go out with a bang. Saving the world or something. On a shark." 

"Do _not_ say that," Nightingale snapped fiercely, and when he kissed me this time it was better, rough, with a touch of hunger rather than regret. I grinned into it and felt him nip me in reproach; we ended up pressed with Nightingale's shoulders against the wall, his hands greedily stroking up my shirt. "Why a shark?" Nightingale asked, his voice steadier, if a little breathless. "No, never mind. This is probably one of your puerile Internet jokes."

"Very good, sir!" I pretended to be amazed, and got another nip, sharp enough to sting. 

I bit back, and we were bruised and laughing like idiots by the time Nightingale pulled back to note, "This doesn't excuse you from practice." 

"Tyrant." I pressed a last kiss over his parted mouth, and said, very mildly, "I had to lecture Abby about learning how to let people go. Didn't think that I would have to repeat it for you."

"If you had died-"

"You've lost people before," I interrupted. "You know how to deal." 

"I thought that I did," Nightingale replied, his voice so raw and frank that he had to be kissed until he stopped shaking, until his breathing slowed and our mouths were bruised on each other. 

This was _crazy_. Devotion's meant to be a two way street, but Nightingale clutched at me as though it was going to hurt him to have to let go. I hadn't ever had anyone want me so much before: it was as terrifying as it was exhilarating. I wasn't sure how things had got this far; or whether it had always been like this from the beginning. I was growing hard, a novel lust kindled between each shaky breath Nightingale pressed against me, and I could feel his cock pressed against my hip, a solid, hot weight through my jeans.

I shifted until I could feel him against me and rolled my hips, tentatively; then I couldn't hide my grin as he shook a harsh, surprised gasp against my neck. I got my hands into his hair - neat and prim again - and tugged lightly, and Nightingale muffled a yelp and bucked, making me hiss out a gasp of my own. The friction was uncomfortable through the denim but it was _good_ , hot and gritty. We got a rhythm going, grinding against each other; Nightingale was making these amazing, choked sounds against my shoulder, and I was doing a number on his neck, nipping up until I was pretty sure that he would have to wear a scarf to hide the marks.

"Peter-" Nightingale managed a thin warning before he jerked and slumped against the wall, breathing hard. I nudged his legs open and fumbled with my jeans, getting my aching cock out and spitting on my palm. I got off a stroke before Nightingale's elegant fingers trailed against my wrist, and when I didn't brush him off, they tapered lower, until he had a grip on my hand, all that strength, tense and squeezing. His grey eyes were intense with nervous trust, and for a moment I could see the black edges of a dull fear before he kissed me hard enough to cut my lip on his teeth, and I was shaking up, coming against the wall, wet between my fingers.

"Oops," I said mildly as I realized that the mess had got on one of his shoes. Nightingale snorted as I tucked myself back in, almost perfectly put together again, though he shot my lip an apologetic glance. 

"I'll get changed," Nightingale said, then added, wryly, " _Yet_ again," before scooting out and leaving me to clean up the lab before Molly materialized. There was an ever-present box of tissues in the lab rooms, ever since exploding apples had marked the start of my learning curve with _Impello_ , and years of having to tag along with my Mum to her work as a cleaning lady meant that I could operate on autopilot while wiping down surfaces. 

It also meant that my brain had cleared up enough to listen to all the prodding. I trudged upstairs and struggled with the Folly's excuse for phone technology until Stephanopoulos picked up.

"Jesus, Peter," she growled, "I'm not even working right now. Fuck you, enjoy your weekend."

"Did we get all of Wabanhu's phone records from the Ritz?"

"Obviously. We got his wheelchair-bound associate's from the Savoy, too. Nothing except the occasional call for room service. You can check HOLMES for this," she added reproachfully. In the background, I heard a woman's voice, soft and querying, there was a scraping sound, as though a hand was being clapped briefly over the phone receiver, then Stephanopoulos was back. "Why?"

I told her about the Faceless One's Underground Bokor House Party intel, and she swore. "Thanks," she said finally. "It's gonna be a great weekend for me. Especially since the _last_ time we went down mob-handed it was a fucking _circus_."

I refrained from pointing out that being senior officers at the time of the last said incident, Seawoll and Stephanopoulos hadn't exactly come along on our last underground Met jaunt. "Don't mention it." A thought occurred to me. "Did they have mobile phones?"

"No. Doesn't seem to be a thing with your people," Stephanopoulos said dryly. 

"Did you try pulling phone records from the public phones around the hotels?" 

Stephanopoulos agreed to try, or, in other words, to ring up some poor minion and ruin his/her weekend, and I hung up. I was going to have to speak to Mama Abeni again after all.


	11. Chapter 11

XXVI.

Mama Abeni hadn't been exactly pleased to see me again so quickly, but I knew it was all an act. After all, now that my Mum had put out word about my 'witchfinder' job, the only press that I could bring her by visiting her so visibly in the middle of the day was good press.

I bribed her with more cigars, she told me what I was expecting to learn, and I headed back to the Folly by the scenic route, so distracted that I accidentally ran a couple of lights. Abby was in the lower Library, struggling with math homework, and she looked relieved when I interrupted. Beside her textbook, Peggy shot me the evil eye, but didn't move. 

"Abby," I said carefully, "Before you showed me the unicorn, have you shown magic to anyone else before?"

She looked a little hunted, but eventually, she kicked at the air. "There was one guy. I was in a park, practicing the lights. He was passing by. He was real curious. Asked me alot of questions. Then he told me never to show the lights to anyone, and to only practice when I was really sure that I was gonna be alone." 

"This guy, ah, what did he look like?"

She shot me a keenly curious look. "Shouldn't you know? He's been in this house before. You called him Zach."

Fucking hell. 

No wonder not even Nightingale's contacts had seen him recently, when Lesley and I had originally tried to dig him up for the exploding persons case. The idiot had to have squealed to someone. After all, the first that Mama Abeni had heard of Abby's special talents had been when the Kamaras had approached her after Abby had already come to stay with us.

"Thanks, Abby." Unfortunately Zach squealed easily, so my list of suspects behind the Curious Incident of the Talking Fox in the Daytime now stretched between one and infinity.

Someone had known about Abby even _before_ she had pulled that unicorn trick in the lab. Maybe it was connected to the appearance of the bokors, maybe not. But it smelled. And sadly, it looked as though we couldn't put off a visit to Matthew Ten-Tons after all. If there was one thing that Zach couldn't keep away from, it was Matthew's lovely daughter, although the Princess had, to me, seemed quite indifferent to her goblinboy Romeo. 

On the other hand, this was probably going to be a fairly safe trip. The agreement with the Quiet People had been a rather friendly one, I heard, so it meant that instead of groping around in the dark as we did the last time, Stephen met me at the sewer access at the west side of Westbourne Park Road, big-eyed and pale, dressed in a black hoodie that blotted out most of the rest of his face. No sten gun, this time - not that any of the Quiet People really needed weapons if push came to shove. They had their own tricks.

"And I thought that it was going to be a nice evening," Lesley said dryly. Standing next to Stephen in his vaudeville magician three piece suit and gloves get up was the Faceless One, relaxed and unperturbed. 

"How did-" I began, but I was cut off. 

"Given the number of bureaucratic hoops that Thomas has to jump through to get this visit authorised and put forward? Come now. I have my sources." 

"There you have it," I pointed out. "We've got authorisation for two visitors. That's me and Lesley. No arseholes in the equation."

"I could come with you," the Faceless One said mildly, "Or cloak myself and follow you from behind." 

"If we've got a choice, I think I prefer the one which has a small chance of giving you a stroke from magic overuse," I suggested. 

"Or we could come back another day," Lesley added.

"And I would be here again."

Stand off. I wondered if punching the Faceless One on the nose would put a dent in his annoyingly smug air, when Stephen, to my surprise, actually rumbled to life. "Ten-Tons wants to see all the Isaacs." 

The 'Isaacs' was the demifae nickname for English Magicians, as the current _forma_ of English magic was codified by Isaac Newton, in between his experiments with the rules of science, alchemy, the Royal Mint, and probably plans for tidy world domination. Newton was a busy man. "That doesn't include him," I tried, pointing at the Faceless One.

" _All_ the Isaacs," Stephen stressed, and started to stomp into the sewer, as though his point had been made. I sighed, and prepared myself to lose another set of perfectly good clothes. Lesley and I were wearing the prescribed borrowed waist-high waders, a last minute favour from the British Transport Police, but the Faceless One wasn't in gear.

"We're going into the Sewer, not walking through Harrods," I pointed out.

"I am aware of that fact," the Faceless One said loftily, and sauntered into the pungent dark, a werelight popping up over his shoulder. Stephen walked on, clearly not caring to turn back and check if we were following him, and we trudged down the same way we had come the last time, through now there were armed Quiet People guards in the fake ceramic wood room that the sliding hatch in the pipes led to.

As they patted us over with the careful precision of a customs officer, the Faceless One remarked, "By the way, that delayed implosion fireball that you threw at me on the roof - was that your design?"

The question threw me for a brief moment. "Yes?"

"No need to sound so defensive," the Faceless One noted, amused. "It didn't seem very much like something Thomas would have taught. He treats variations to standard _forma_ as, hn, heresies, in a way."

"Don't I know it," I muttered, before I could stop myself. Nightingale disapproved of experimentation - or any scientific ways of trying to measure out magic's effect on the environment. A waste of time, he said.

The Faceless One snorted. "He's never had a particularly enlightened view towards progress. And where would there be progress without investigation? After all, the very founder of the discipline is _Newton_. Nightingale teaches stagnation."

"At least he doesn't teach human sacrifice," I noted mildly.

"Ah," the Faceless One smiled wolfishly, "But without experimentation, how can regenerative magic ever be adapted to work from other objects?"

"Qualms? From you?"

"Human subjects can be inconvenient to acquire and transport. Not to mention that they're often missed."

"As compared to batteries?" At the Faceless One's tilted head, I muttered, reluctantly, "Magic drains active electronics. That's why electronics need to be disconnected from power sources when a spell is cast. Otherwise, they melt into silica powder. Or explode. There's probably a way to do it. Vampire, um, vampire nests are usually fully drained, even of electronics."

"Tested this, did you?"

"I might've." I had, in fact, tested electronics at varying distances. The ones closest to a werelight had suffered the most damage. When I had mentioned it to Nightingale, he had offered up some sort of confused hypothesis as to the reason, and I had gotten the feeling that it mattered less _why_ it worked as to whether it worked 'properly', i.e, following the Prescribed Fashion.

There was a snort. "You're wasted in Nightingale's employ, Peter Grant. He has no respect for inquiring minds like yours."

I was about to bite back a retort, when Lesley said, suddenly, "You're David Mellenby, aren't you? Not Wheatcroft."

I glanced at her, startled, but the Faceless One let out a sharp laugh. Before he could answer, though, Stephen was waving us through, and we followed him to the T-junction, then down the turn, heading towards Ten-Ton's domain. 

David Mellenby. Of _course_. Nightingale had said before that Wheatcroft wasn't a 'magician of the first order'. I rather doubted that was something you could fake all your life through magic high school and a World War. David Mellenby, on the other hand, had been mentioned now and then as a semi cautionary tale: a colleague with a love of experimentation. Considering how Nightingale brought him up now and then whenever he caught me modifying _forma_ , I had always assumed that he had met a sticky, experimental end in the World War.

Guess not.

On our previous visit, the tunnels and the final room had been packed full of Quiet People, anxious to investigate visitors by literally getting a feel for us. It hadn't been anything crude or sexual - it was just their way of communicating, apparently. This time round, the tunnels were absolutely empty, and I was beginning to feel a slight sense of dread.

"Should there be something to be concerned over?" The Faceless One was watching us carefully.

I glanced at Lesley, who made a light shrug. _Your call_ , the shrug said. I guessed that if shit had gone down, well, the Faceless One was sadly probably our best chance of getting out of here alive. The last time I had gone toe to toe with one of the Quiet People in a subway station, I had discovered that it had inexplicable, earth-and-time bending powers of some sort, and I had ended up buried alive, nearly drowned to cap it off, and owing a favour to Lady Tyburn, who had been the one who had found me. She had made it pretty clear that it was an exceptional circumstances thing only.

"The last time," I said reluctantly, "The corridors were packed. Everyone was curious. And very tactile."

"Hm," the Faceless One noted, and said nothing else. 

"Er, and don't raise your voice, it's rude. And you'll probably need to switch that off soon," I added, pointing at the werelight. It winked out, without warning, and I almost stumbled, but then we were close enough to Ten-Tons' chamber to see the chemical glow of the glowsticks. 

The chamber was also empty of onlookers, though the weirdly out of place Victorian table and plush benches were still there. Standing behind the table, lean and upright, Matthew Ten-Tons watched us silently: for all the world like a tall, thin man in an old-fashioned suit and sunglasses, an extra on a break off a period film. 

"Peter Grant. Lesley May," he greeted us softly, and his face had nothing of the wry humour of our last visit. "And who is this, who comes to Ten-Tons with his face locked tight?"

Lesley and I waited, trying not to look too interested. To my surprise, the Faceless One merely smiled thinly. "I am David Mellenby." 

"And your face?"

"Sadly," Mellenby - if it was really Mellenby - drawled, as he tapped his fingertip against his cheek, "This cannot be removed. It's a symbiote."

Beside me, I felt Lesley shudder. Her face had been ruined by magic. Mellenby, if he was speaking the truth, had ruined his own as well - intentionally. 

"Changes your face - hm! Changes your voice." Ten-Tons narrowed his eyes slightly. "Hardly a device to endear you to friends."

"I am not here to endear myself," Mellenby said flatly. "I am here to suggest an alliance." 

"We have no love for outsider magicians of late," Ten-Tons said, very mildly, and for a brief moment I had an awful premonition of being fed to the pig farm. 

"What a coincidence," I said carefully, "I was nearly killed by one the other day. Man in a gray suit, preserved albino trophy necklace?"

Ten-Tons' gaze swung to me. "A half-caste like you. Yes."

I was getting a little tired of that phrase from them, but I said nothing. The Quiet People were painfully old-fashioned. Thankfully, Mellenby spoke up. "They are also our enemies. We thought that we had driven them from London. They sought to hide from us below ground." 

"So you were the ones who drove them below ground," Ten-Tons whispered, and although there was no change in his tone, the anger in his voice was like a slap in the face. I saw Lesley straighten up, and I almost took a step back, but beside me, Mellenby looked absolutely unconcerned. 

"We seek to drive them out of London. Above and below," he replied flatly. "They are our enemies." 

"Can you prove it?"

I glanced at Lesley, wondering whether Ten-Tons would be willing to listen to testimony via Airwave, when Mellenby reached inside his jacket and tossed an oilcloth wrapped packet on the table. Ten-Tons opened it, and I had to swallow a brief gasp of bile. The severed ear from the bokor that Mellenby had used to regenerate me was there, along with what looked like a preserved, dried big toe and a nose.

Gross.

Ten-Tons bared his teeth, then he took a step back, and the aggression from him eased. "Yes. Yes. They hunt the Pale People."

Albinos body parts. The Quiet People. Technically, not exactly the same thing, but to psychos who thought that body parts from people suffering from a congenital disorder were magical, I supposed the Quiet People probably seemed like the same thing, with their bone pale skin. God. To the bokors, finding an entire tribe of them must have looked like all their Christmases had come early. 

"How many people have they taken?" I asked, fumbling for my notebook. "Did you make a report?"

The question trailed off into silence. The Quiet People had difficulty enough understanding a considerable proportion of outside customs, let alone the concept of a police system. Ten-Tons shot me an odd glance. "They have taken too many," he conceded finally, addressing the only question that he could. "We have tried to fight back." 

"All we need," Mellenby said persuasively, "Is a location. Assistance, if you can afford it. But knowledge will be key to their defeat. We have killed four of them to date. We-"

"The goblin boy has told me," Ten-Tons interrupted, "That the Merlin has returned. Is this correct?" 

"That is correct," Mellenby's tone went flat again. 

"I wish to speak with him."

"The Merlin's a her," I put in dryly, "And a 'half-caste'."

"The Merlin," Ten-Tons glanced at me briefly, "Is the Merlin. I knew the first one. They are the same."

"The first one?" I frowned. "You mean, Camelot and everything?"

"The first in these lands."

Wow. And I had thought that Mama Thames was old. Ten-Tons could probably roll Father Thames for his money. "She's busy. Maybe if you help us out with her enemies, I'll tell her that you'll like to come over for tea." 

Mellenby glanced at me, and although I couldn't concentrate on his face, I got the distinct impression that he was glowering at me. "Also," I forged on, "Where is Zach?" 

"Coordinating the hiding places," Ten-Tons said, which was a bit of a surprise. I had previously thought that Zach's status with them ran along the same as a sewer rat. Occasionally amusing, but mostly ignored and kept off the premises.

"We need to speak to him too," I said firmly, "I have a feeling that he was the first guy to have learned who the Merlin was. I want to know who he blabbed to. Someone drew the bokor to London before _we_ found out about the Merlin," I added quietly, when Ten-Tons hesitated. "I'll like to know who. Personally."

When Ten-Tons shifted away, to speak to Stephen, Mellenby asked, "'Before'?"

We grudgingly told him about the fox, and my original theory that it was Lady Ty, and about Abby and the park. He exhaled irritably. "And to think that I felt that Nightingale's war council was already ill advised. I had no idea that the security breach ran so far." 

"What are you getting out of this?" Lesley demanded. "What do you want with Abby?"

"Do you know what happens in five years?" Mellenby asked, his smile thin and sharp. At our half-shakes, he purred, "Yes, of course not. I have spent half a century travelling the world, visiting Pompeii, Helike, the other surviving sites, just to answer this question. I knew that the Merlin would come again, you see. They mark… I suppose you could call it rebirth cycles, in magic." 

"Nightingale said before that magic was fading," I said doubtfully, "But was reviving since the 1960s?"

"Yes. The birth of her parents. Unremarkable people, with no magic, but still, a pre-beginning." Mellenby glanced around the room, and I noticed with belated irritation that despite the slog through the sewers to get here, he was still perfectly clean. Wizards. "Wheatcroft and I decided to embark on a little experiment. He would remain in London, and train up as many practitioners as he could - enlightened and educated young people, if possible. I would travel, and learn what I could." 

"A rather large number of these 'enlightened' young people have turned out to be complete arseholes," I said mildly.

"They need not learn why to use magic," Mellenby waved this interjection away impatiently. "Only that they should be exposed _to_ magic. The whole point of selecting only the best and brightest, after all, is to invest in English magic's political and financial future. Many of Wheatcroft's 'Little Crocodiles' and their descendants now hold very… _useful_ positions. I learned what I could and came home, two years ago. Wheatcroft was on his deathbed."

It occurred to me that perhaps we had been nosing about the wrong places for the Little Crocodiles after all. They were all Oxford grads to a hair, after all. Just because one of them had ended up crippled and nursemaided in a flat didn't mean that all of them had to be holed up in dumps. "I'm sure that your heart was broken." 

Mellenby ignored my attempt at levity. "I attended his funeral, and noted, rather to my surprise, that Thomas seemed to be ageing… backwards. That cemented our theory. You see, one thing that I had learned over my travels is that each Merlin also has a teacher. A Blaise, you could say."

"And a Morgan le Fay?" Lesley added dryly. 

Mellenby shot Lesley a brief glance. "Wheatcroft and I entertained several inconclusive theories as to the details, but in effect, yes. A new Merlin tends to have two functionally immortal teachers, who will teach him everything that there is to know about magic - and who will attempt to protect him until he comes of age. Once his mind turns adult, the Merlin _becomes_ magic." 

"Like becoming one with the Force?" I ventured sardonically.

Evil magicians had a better grasp on pop culture than good ones, it seemed. But then again, Mellenby's favourite demon traps had been written in Tolkien Sindarin, so what was I to know. Maybe there really was such a thing as old immortal evil nerd magicians. "A neat explanation," Mellenby said, amused, "But perhaps not a precise one. Certainly they don't die, past their prime. Camelot, Pompeii and Atlantis are evidence enough. The research is not particularly clear."

"We could ask Ten-Tons," Lesley pointed out. "He's met the previous Merlin." 

"If he doesn't decide to have us killed," I added, because I've always felt that a little pessimism tended to add spice to a situation. We milled around on that thought until Ten-Tons returned.

"There's been another murder," he said, his tone inflectionless. "Come and see." 

I could see Mellenby beginning to protest this as a waste of time, so I quickly said, "Sure. After all, we're the police. Ah… can I make a few calls?" It looked like I was going to ruin Seawoll's Sunday after all.


	12. Chapter 12

XXVII.

Apparently any dealings with the Quiet People were so tied up with bureaucratic red tape that even Seawoll needed a few hours to negotiate entry for his Murder Team, if at all. We called home to update Nightingale, secured the crime scene - or what was left of it - and waited.

The body had been dumped in the sewage and had been fished out by a dour member of the Quiet People called Martin. At this point, it was so degraded by all the waste that I couldn't pick up any _vestigium_ at all. The damage was still obvious, though. The bokors had hacked off the poor bastard's ears, hands and feet. They'd left the nose and the other bits, but the damage had probably been done while the vic was alive, and he had bled to death from his wounds. 

"He was drained first," Lesley was taking notes. "See that. He isn't bleeding, and those are major wounds. They drained him of his blood before they dumped the body." 

"I don't suppose that there's a way to tell where the body was dumped." I peered up the stinking, broad channel of waste, but could only dimly see intersections ahead. 

"Yep." Lesley made another note. "Those are really clean cuts. Whoever did the amputations used a very sharp knife, and a hell of a lot of strength." 

"Or a machine?" 

Lesley shuddered. "Probably unlikely, if their magic has the same effect on tech as ours." 

Ten-Tons had watched the proceedings from a relatively dry ledge politely, with Stephen, Martin and Mellenby by his side, and now he called, "Well?"

"We'll need forensics for the time of death," I glanced back at the corpse. Poor bastard. "But in the meantime, if I could get a statement from you about the deceased-"

The vic's name was Alex, and he was twenty-one years old: not _too_ young by way of lifespan where the Quiet People were involved, apparently. His previous occupation involved working the kilns, which explained the bulky muscle in his shoulders and the old, white burn scars on his naked chest and arms. He _was_ meant to be in hiding. 

"How are you feeding your people?" Lesley asked, curious. "If you've shut down operations to a skeleton crew?" 

"That is not your concern," Ten-Tons replied flatly.

"If only a few people at a time have been picked off," Mellenby interjected smoothly, "It is not unremarkable that they were picked off when outside their safehouses, on errands." 

Ten-Tons grudgingly conceded the point with a nod. "And so," Mellenby added, "I profess myself curious how the bokors, being foreign, acquired such a detailed knowledge of the sewers within a few days." 

To my surprise, Stephen volunteered an answer, when Ten-Tons merely looked confused. "You can get maps," he whispered softly. "At them floating markets. Of the hidden places." 

"You've been to one?" Lesley asked, surprised.

"Not me," Stephen murmured, but didn't seem to be inclined to elaborate. 

"If you have one," I said, "Or if we get one, could you mark all the locations where the bodies were found? Maybe we could triangulate a source."

Ten-Tons frowned, and at that point Lesley's phone rang. It was Stephanopoulos, and it turned out that the Quiet People's treaty of non-interference also included murders. I wasn't sure whether Seawoll was relieved. The crime scene was definitely fucked - he didn't need to be here to see it - and the perpetrators were known and trigger happy. The DI sounded mildly apologetic. She did, however, have information about the public phone records.

We left Martin to attend to the vic's remains and retreated back to Ten-Tons' room. Zach was waiting for us, with one of the Quiet People standing behind him, and when he saw us, he smiled nervously. "Hey, uh. Peter. Lesley. How's it going?"

Zach, in my opinion, was a slippery streak of pale piss. He was demifae, on his father's or grandfather's side, and had been useful as a Person of Interest in the murder we had solved involving associates of the Quiet People. He also had a very one-sided infatuation with Ten-Tons' daughter that was never going to go anywhere, not that he seemed to realize this. He smelled of sweat and sewers, and his eyes flicked uneasily between myself and Lesley.

"Can we speak to him privately?" I asked Ten-Tons, who nodded and waved us to a corridor. Lesley and I dragged Zach down it firmly until we were fairly sure that our whispers wouldn't carry, then I shoved him against the wall.

"Ow- Peter, c'mon-"

"Did you meet a friend of ours," I noted pleasantly, "Called Abigail, in a park? Little girl, about this high, big fluffy hair?"

"Well, um," When I shook him, Zach grimaced at me, "Hey, uh, is this really proper police behaviour-"

"We've just received a phone call informing us that what happens with the Quiet People stays with the Quiet People," Lesley said neutrally. "It's your lucky day, Zach. We're off duty. Did you meet Abigail in a park? The Merlin?"

It took a bit of shaking, but eventually, Zach admitted reluctantly that yes, he had met Abigail in the park, and not in a creepy way or anything: the park had just happened to be on his way to a floating market, and he liked the overland routes. 

"I told her not to do her tricks in public," he said plaintively, "Wasn't a good area for it. I figured that she was probably one of you people. She said that she knew you. I was giving her advice for her own good, see."

"And I suppose giving out her description was also for her own good?" I asked dryly. 

Zach flinched. "I just mentioned it to Elizabeth, you know, just because it was interesting, er, and she told her father, and then Ten-Tons asked me a lot of questions. I didn't realize what she really was until then, all right?" His eyes flashed with anger. "And I can't believe that you people are hoarding her. Aren't you guys meant to be protecting the Queen's Peace?"

"She's a little girl-" Lesley began, confused by Zach's temper.

"She's a _time bomb_ , that's what she is," Zach shot back. "The older she gets, the more likely she's going to blow. And when she does, that's all of London! Gone! Like Atlantis!" 

I didn't need to look at Lesley to know that our situation here probably just got a hell of a lot worse. "Was that Ten-Tons' opinion?" I asked carefully.

"No, he just wants to meet her, he's been after me for it since-" Zach stopped sharply, realizing his mistake, and yelped when I shoved him against the wall again. 

"Who else did you speak to, Zach? _Someone_ called the bokors to London and tried to warn us off with a talking fox. Who was it?"

"You Isaacs don't know how much trouble you're in," Zach said desperately, "Look, it's not too late, Peter, it's-" 

"You could assist the police," Lesley cut in, "Or we can drag you back to the main room and have a 'public' word with you, in front of Ten-Tons, instead of being so nice as to have a quiet one with you here."

"And… and if I tell you?" Zack asked, uncomfortably. "You're gonna let me go?"

"I'll give you a one hour headstart," I growled, "Before I talk to Ten-Tons." 

Zach begged and whined, but eventually, we had him. "I talked to the Court," he said, defeated. "The Midsummer Court. My dad still has standing there. I sent him a word."

"You mean, fairies?" I asked, and despite himself, Zach glowered at me.

"I said that we don't use those words. But sure. Midsummer knows how to handle the Merlins." 

I didn't like the sound of that, but it was Lesley who asked, "And instead of sending their own assassins, they contracted out?"

"The last Merlin damaged the Ways," Zach muttered. "No humans can get in any more. And only a very small number of us can get out. My dad's one of them. Midsummer instructed him to assist." 

"So… why get rid of Abigail?" I asked, puzzled. "She's got no beef with the, er, Court."

"You two don't know anything," Zach said, almost pityingly. "Look. If she sinks London, she'll finish the job. The Ways will close - permanently. No one will be able to get in, or out. And that'll stifle the Fair Lands, y'see? Starves the Lands of life, starves your lands of power. Get it? Anyone with even a touch of fae blood will suffer." 

I didn't, but I knew better than to let it show. Lesley, thankfully, picked it up. "So you contacted the bokors?"

"Not me. I, uh, just passed on the information-"

"Funny that," I noted mildly, "Seeing as we've got some very interesting phone records off the public phones around the Ritz and the Savoy. Calls made to one of your current known boltholes. I should know." 

The number had pinged up on HOLMES when a search was done on Seawoll's clearance, according to Stephanopoulos: Elizabeth Ten-Tons had listed it helpfully in the Quiet People's Known Associates stat list during the inquiry. Guess Zach had never intended his for-Princess-only private number to become police knowledge. 

"I didn't call them here! That was my dad. He told me to help out, that's all. I just let them know where they could hide, all right? Gave them one of the maps," Zach said, looking defeated now. "I didn't know that this would happen! They're just meant to be here for the girl. I didn't know that they would kill my friends!"

"You mean, you didn't know that they had just killed at least eleven people upside?" When Zach shot me an uncomfortable look, I shook my head, slowly. "You're a fucking idiot, Zach. You're going to tell me where these people are. And then, I suggest that you get out of town." 

"We're not going to bring him in?" Lesley asked.

"Ten-Tons will get to him," I shrugged. "And I'm not sure whether the Quiet People's no-interference mandate works if they murder someone in police custody."

"One last thing," Lesley added, when Zach cringed, "Your father. How do we get hold of him?"

To our surprise, Zach shuddered. "I can't tell you that one. Really. I can't. I got a… I can't."

"Zach-" I began, menacingly, but Zach was making frantic mouth zipping actions. "Spell?" At his relieved nod, I glanced over to Lesley, who gave a slight nod of her own. Zach squealed easily, after all. If he thought that giving up his dad's name could buy him out of trouble, he probably would. After all, he had long mentioned that he had no real love for his kind. 

Zach was silent all the way back. Ten-Tons wasn't present, but Mellenby was waiting beside the desk, a large and laminated map beside him, with a box of permanent markers. Zach circled a spot on the map without prompting, then scuttled away when I let him go. 

"Should have killed him," Mellenby said, listening in as we called Nightingale to update him. "He could warn the bokors that we are coming."

"I'm pretty sure that they already know that we're coming," I said dryly. "And besides, if he's dumb enough to stay underground, it's not us that he should be afraid of." 

It wasn't as though I had been subtle about why I wanted to talk to Zach, after all. Too bad about his maybe-chances with Elizabeth: the bastard obviously hadn't thought twice about loosing assassins on a thirteen year old girl.

"We might have needed a link to Midsummer," Mellenby pointed out.

"I have connections with Midsummer," Nightingale said brusquely, over the phone. "This does explain why they've been reluctant conversationalists of late. I'll make more inquiries." 

"We've got the location," I looked pointedly at the map, when Mellenby sneered. "Now what?"

"Assuming that your 'friend' didn't point us towards a trap," Mellenby added.

"You're such a ray of sunshine today," I retorted sourly.

Zach had pointed us towards Brompton Road Tube Station. London played host to a variety of so-called 'ghost' stations, some demolished, some administered. Brompton Road Station sat at the junction of Brompton Road and Cottage Place, was closed when Knightsbridge Station opened, and, as far as reports went, the disused platforms had been bricked up, the chambers cut off. The top levels were used by the Air Squadron and the Navy as town headquarters. Some would say that it wasn't exactly a _great_ location for a Secret Evil Underground Hideout, what with the brass being so close and all, but I had a sinking feeling that the bokors probably didn't even view them as a threat.

"How quickly can you mobilize?" Mellenby was asking Nightingale. 

"Within two hours. Access may be easier from above ground."

"They'll be expecting that," Mellenby disagreed. "There's another sewer entrance close by." There was more bickering, then finally it was agreed. We would meet again in three hours at the Brompton sewer access. Mellenby shot the map a last glance and wandered off, presumably to mobilize the Little Crocodiles. I wasn't so sure how I felt about this.

"Deal with the devil," Lesley murmured, as she took a photo of the map with her phone. I had to agree. 

"I'll take Cafferty," Nightingale said briskly, "And I'll attend to this personally. Lesley, Peter, you're both to remain with Abigail at the Folly."

" _No_ ," Lesley objected, even as I said, "We can help, sir."

"Neither of you are sufficiently trained to face a skirmish of this magnitude."

"And Cafferty is?"

"Cafferty and his men have had experience," Nightingale said, with a tone of finality. "Go home."

XXVIII.

Considering that we were the ones who had done all the leg work, 'disappointing' didn't even remotely scratch the surface. Nightingale left in Frank Cafferty's paramilitary van with only a very terse warning for us not to follow him, and we washed up, got Abby, and went to watch Harry Potter in the carriage house.

"This sucks," Abby said aloud, as Umbridge started her cat picture and bitchiness takeover of Hogwarts.

"I've always thought that the cat plates were a bit over the top," I wasn't particularly fond of cats. Or dogs. Or monster chickens. 

"Not the _movie_ ," Abby glanced over her shoulder at me to see if I was being purposefully dense. " _This_. Being left at _home_."

"Well," Lesley said dryly, "Someday you'll probably have to fight some battles of your own. But right now-"

"Right now, why not?"

"Ah, well," Lesley looked at me helplessly, then back to Abigail, "You're too young."

"Harry Potter was young."

"And besides," I added reasonably, "Your dad would kill me. Also," I continued, when Abby rolled her eyes, clearly unimpressed by my healthy survival instincts, "The whole point of doing this was to make sure that they don't mess with you. Seems like bringing you into the firefight so that they _can_ mess with you defeats the point."

"So maybe we don't rush in," Abby said glibly, "Maybe we could just check on how they're doing."

"Kid," I told her severely, "You've got the brain of a sneak thief." 

She pushed her lower lip out at me, and Lesley lifted a shoulder. "Nightingale did say not to follow him."

"You wouldn't be following him, you've got your own way of getting there," Abby continued innocently. Suddenly, I could see why the Kamaras had settled in for Abby staying with us so relatively quickly. The little girl could be a real terror.

"We'll just get in the way," Lesley said, if doubtfully, but this seemed to satisfy Abby. We ordered pizza, and Molly crept in to the carriage house, clearly moping, but settling on the couch when Abby beckoned to her. At the end of the Potter marathon, Abby was asleep, and I nodded when Molly carefully scooped her up. 

"So," I said.

"So," Lesley said. "Are we going, or what?"

"Are we - really?"

"You couldn't sit still for the whole movie," Lesley pointed out. "I was watching you."

I tried not to sigh. "All right, fine. It's been hours, and not a word. I'm thinking, whatever happened, it wasn't good." 

"So we jump in and save the day?" Lesley sounded openly skeptical, but I wasn't fooled. She had her feet planted flat on the ground, ready to go. "If Nightingale and Mellenby - and friends - couldn't handle it, what makes you think that we could? And what about Abby? If something happens to us, she'll be alone."

"We'll just take a look. From above ground."

"I thought that the whole point of them trudging through the sewers is because above ground was definitely watched?"

"But would it be now? They've been there for a while, after all. I don't think they would have gone quietly." If they were gone. I felt cold, all of a sudden, and I had to draw in a slow breath. No. I didn't want to think about that. Surely, with Cafferty, at least, they couldn't have gone out with a whimper. Not Nightingale. 

Lesley was obviously wavering - she wanted to be persuaded. Finally, she said, "Okay. We'll take a look from street level. Just to check how things are going."

We took the Jag, because Lesley had passed the Road Safety course, and because if we were just about to do something completely stupid, we might as well arrive at said point of stupidity in style. 

After finding some parking, we walked over to the street opposite the above ground entrance of Brompton Road station. Its facade had been preserved: a sturdy, squat brick building wedged between two others, unlovely, a relic of wartime London. Its high arches were gridded in white, with a line of blue bikes up front. One light was on, at the top right of the upper row of rectangular buildings, but otherwise, it was dark.

There was a sense of… wrongness around it. I couldn't place the feeling, but it made the hair on the back of my neck stand. I couldn't sense any _vestigium_ , though, and it wasn't like the aftermath of a thaumaturgical battle. It just felt like disorientation, a little like vertigo. From the way Lesley kept shifting her weight and looking around, I guessed I wasn't the only one. 

Studying the building, I jumped when a voice beside me said, "Grant."

It was Effra - another one of Mama Thames' daughters, dressed in gray jeans and an unassuming blouse. I supposed that I wasn't too surprised. We weren't that far north of the Thames. She stared at us both, her lips quirked. "With compliments," she said, holding out a couple of small corked bottles. 

Lesley and I kept our hands to ourselves. "No strings attached?" Lesley asked.

"That's not a nice thing to say," Effra pointed out, though her smile widened. She placed the bottles carefully on the ground. "Especially if you're going where Mum thinks that you're going."

Wordlessly, reluctantly, we picked up a bottle each. What else were we going to do? Effra nodded approvingly as we pocketed our bottles. "Mum says to remember that this is blood country," she added, and started walking briskly away to her car before I could ask. 

"Okay." Lesley blew out a breath, ruffling her mask. "So we're doing this."

"Yep."

"We're going to be in serious trouble." Lesley said, though she sounded anticipatory and nervous rather than accusing.

"Let me handle it. Can't be worse than hijacking an ambulance. Nightingale's-" _soft on me_ , I wanted to add, but I couldn't get the words out. God. Let him be all right. 

She squeezed my hand, tightly, once, and we crossed the street together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm heading off to Sydney for a bit of a break. :) I have internet there, and I've done the drafts for the next few chapters already, so I should be able to update, but if I don't - don't panic! ^^


	13. Chapter 13

XXIV.

The door wasn't locked: always a bad sign.

Inside, as far as I could tell, the reception space was empty. A faded navy blue carpet ran towards a white plastic counter block adorned with the Navy and Air Force seals, and there were benches of seats pressed against the wall. A noticeboard papered over with tacked slips of paper had been nailed to one wall, and in another corner of the room, close to a stairway, a potted plant wilted gently.

So far, so good. 

Lesley had come prepared: she switched on a torchlight, scanning the doorway, looking for signs of a devil trap. When she saw none, I squeezed her hand, and I walked in, ready to bring up a shield if I had to-

-and into a chilly evening night. I stared, blinking, then flinched when behind me, Lesley stumbled heavily against me. I turned to steady her, and stared. 

Instead of her jeans, parka, blouse and mask, Lesley was wearing a black, fur-trimmed coat over a long, yellow dress that stopped at mid-calf, fitted at the midriff and high-necked. Instead of the mask, she was wearing a large, broad-brimmed hat, heavily veiled: I couldn't even see her eyes, and she was wearing a small black shoulder bag, as vintage as the rest of her get-up. Her heels were white with thick heels, and she had tripped over the cobblestones we were standing on.

"Okay." I breathed out, looking down. At least I was in a coal black suit with a tie, even if the cut and stolid fitting reminded me of pre-War photos. I could feel the bottle in my trouser pocket, and Lesley opened her bag quickly. She held up the bottle, I nodded, and she put it back.

"Where are we?" Lesley asked. "And why the hell are our clothes different?" She paused, with a frown, and corrected herself, " _When_ are we?" 

I looked around, about to say for a moment that I didn't know, then I hesitated. I _did_ know where we were. Instead of the heavily overgrown lawn I remembered, this version was neatly trimmed, with hedgecrows pruned into cubes along the side. The house looked somewhat more like a Regency terrace than it was before, if only because it was missing half of the uncontrolled extensions that it had presently. Its sash windows were open, and from within the large windows I could see a warm glow on the second floor.

The stone walls with its heavily padlocked wrought iron gate was still there, though. I prodded it. Solid. 

"Peter," Lesley said, very patiently.

"Hogwarts." I pointed at the building. "The Real English version." I fought the urge to laugh: it would probably have come out mildly hysterical. "We're… I think we're probably in a pre-World War II time. The 1920s? 1930s?" I wasn't entirely sure when Nightingale had gone to school. 

Lesley blew out a deep sigh. "All right. I don't even… never mind. How do we get in?"

"Are we meant to get in?"

"Gate," she pointed, then pointed back to us. "Us. Outside. Obviously, we need to get in." 

This was, by all definitions, solid Met reasoning, so I concurred. "Nightingale showed me a way out back," I said, and we had wandered over to the night gate, using a werelight to navigate, where I realized, belatedly, that I did not in fact know the spell to get in. 

We were still stuck. I told Lesley about my visit to the school with Nightingale to look up the library, when we had first found out about the Little Crocodiles through their founder Wheatcroft's marked failure to return library books, of all things, and when I was done, she felt over the door with her gloved hands, searching for a hidden catch. There wasn't any, obviously: whatever unlocked the gate was magic words.

"We could try 'open sesame' in Latin," Lesley suggested, a little glumly. She knew just as well as I did that passwords probably weren't going to do the trick: if a spell was needed to unlock the door, we needed the _forma_. 

"If we wait a bit," I said doubtfully, "Maybe it'll get to morning, and we can head in through the front gate." Would it get to morning? This was a semi-dream-flashback thing, after all. I had never stayed long enough in my previous enforced trips down memory lane to find out how time worked in them.

"Or we could find somewhere to climb over," Lesley glared briefly at her heels. "I can slip these stupid shoes off."

"They're not that bad," I tried soothingly.

"They're uncomfortable," Lesley muttered, shifting her weight, "Though I suppose they'll probably do for weapons in a pinch."

While we were passing increasingly unworkable ideas back and forth, there was a clicking sound, and the night gate slid open with a scrape. Lesley took a step back, but I could only stare. We were looking straight at Nightingale. 

Or rather, a younger version of Nightingale, gangly and pale in a gray coat, buttoned up to the neck. He looked like he was eighteen or nineteen, his hair unfashionably slicked up, wide-eyed and startled as he stared at the both of us. Behind him were a cluster of other boys, all dressed in dark coats, who peered at us with open curiosity.

I recovered first. "Uh, sir, I can explain." 

"I do hope so," Nightingale said, and I realized, depressingly, that there was no recognition in his face at all. "For this is private property. If you seek the servant's entrance, it is further around the back."

Servant's entrance…? 

Oh.

Right. 

Well. This was awkward. Just as I was wondering what to say, Lesley gripped my hand. "Of course, our mistake," she said sweetly. "Begging your pardon." 

"Lesley, what the hell," I began. "We need to-"

"My good sir," Nightingale said reprovingly, "Watch your language in front of a lady."

"All right, I've had enough," I growled, "I know we were told not to follow you, but we got shunted here, and I'm really not a fan of all these personal walks through history. I don't know if you're really Nightingale or not-"

"You know my name?" Nightingale interrupted, warily. 

"Sure I do," I said, irritated, "Just like I know how that kid at the end of your bunch of kids is probably Horace Green-way, whom apparently your prefects don't like, and you're all going out drinking, even though you've been told that spirits will come after you if you break curfew, and sometime in the future you're going to-"

There was a slight shuffle, and then another kid pushed through to stand beside Nightingale. This new kid had a thick mop of curly black hair, and he was short, nearly a head shorter than me, stick thin and pale under his coat with a slender nose and a narrow chin. He had a high forehead, under which he had sharp blue eyes that darted between us, calculating, and his mouth was set into a flat, cruel line. "Thomas, I must apologize. These are my friends. They must have taken the wrong path." 

"Your friends?" Nightingale turned to the kid, sounding surprised. 

"Friends of my family," the kid amended, without missing a beat. "They're visiting the school. I'll write them in at the night desk. They weren't supposed to get here so early from the docks." He turned to us, with a curl to his lips. "Lord Grant, Lady May. I must apologize. Had you sent word ahead, I would have met you at the main gate."

Nightingale blinked at the 'Lord' Grant part, then belatedly seemed to notice my werelight with evident surprise, but said nothing, even as the other kids shuffled out, heading to parts unknown in search of intoxication, drama ended. Nightingale, however, hesitated. "Lord Grant, Lady May, I apologize for my presumption. David, I'm sorry if I've been rude to your guests."

"It's fine. Go on ahead."

Nightingale shot me a final, nakedly curious glance, then hurried off after the other kids. Lesley and I stared at 'David'.

" _Mellenby_?" I asked, incredulous. At his nod, I snickered. "You're _short_."

" _Thank_ you for that remarkably _insightful_ observation," Mellenby glowered at us, but a spotty eighteen year old boy couldn't quite work a withering stare. "How did the two of you get in here without being caught? No, I can sense it. Protection, from Mama Thames?" He didn't wait for an answer, instead trudging back up to the school. Lesley glanced at me, shrugged, and followed. I closed the night gate behind us, even as Mellenby created a werelight to follow us. 

"Where's 'here'?" I asked.

"We're on one of Papa Legba's roads. The Aboriginal Australians have something similar, as do the American Indians. A dream walk, of a sort: a place with different rules, different powers." Mellenby opened the next door, which led to a short corridor of undressed brick, and up, to a flight of wooden steps. 

"Maybe you should translate for people who haven't had the benefit of world travel," I suggested, as we got up onto the wooden landing. 

Mellenby explained, sourly, that Nightingale's inability to understand the basic concept of stealth had meant that there had been a head-on attack, which had been entertaining for a while, until the surviving bokors had all retreated into a room adjoining the closed Piccadilly line station platform. When Nightingale had blasted the door open, he had collapsed. This hadn't exactly broken Mellenby's heart, who had presumably stepped over Nightingale's body to enter the room, at which point, he had woken up in here.

"So, not good," I summarised. Mellenby sniffed.

"I'm uncertain about the quality of the muscle that Thomas employed, but Jeremy will have known to pull back and wait." 

"Assuming everyone out there is still alive," I said cheerfully. "Good job running into the trapped room, sir." 

"Had I been dead off the roads," Mellenby ignored my criticism and waved at the room, "I would be dead everywhere. That much runs in common for these places."

"Why doesn't Nightingale recognise us?" Lesley asked, looking around with avid curiosity. 

"He tripped the trap. It set upon him, I must have been caught by the detritus," Mellenby made a face. "I've been on guided tours of roads like these before. Not Papa Legba's, but similar, in Darwin and Nevada. They're the Soft Paths. They're designed to entrap their victims. Keep their minds happy, so they'll never figure out that they're meant to leave. Spend too long here, and you won't want to leave: the dream consumes you then. Malicious things." 

" _You_ stopped me from telling him that he was dreaming," I pointed out.

"I tried it first," Mellenby retorted. "Unfortunately, a direct attempt to shake Thomas out of it only seems to result in… unwanted attention. It was only through the thinnest of chances that I managed to escape and reintegrate, using a trick I learned when I was in Darwin. The dream has to be broken some other way. It has to be moved off Papa Legba's road." 

"So," I said, a little depressed, "The bokors are in here too?" I didn't like our chances.

"Worse." Mellenby paused briefly, as we got into the Great Hall. It was lit up with chandeliers, brilliant and harsh, lighting up the stairways and the rich carpets. The far wall was empty of names, of course, and paintings of English landscapes and portraits of men and women were framed over the stone walls. There was a small desk to our left, with a large tome on it and an old-fashioned fountain pen. Mellenby headed to it, then he stopped sharply. "Wait." 

He gripped our wrists, dragging us back into the shadows of the corridor, the werelight winking out, and I was about to jerk mine out of his grasp when, outside, over one of the large windows, an eye flickered into view, its pupil moving as it swept the room in its gaze, golden, fierce and huge. An owl's eye. The walls shook, briefly as though something gigantic was pressed against them, and the chandeliers swung in slow arcs above us at the sound of a deafening, owl's shriek.

Mama Marinette was hunting. 

I didn't breathe, not until the eye disappeared and Mellenby let us go. He stepped right over to the desk as though nothing had happened, while I probably would have sagged if Lesley hadn't reached over to grab my hand. She was trembling, and because of that, I forced myself to take in a few quick breaths and calm down.

"Was that…" she whispered. I nodded, and she shivered. 

"Get over here," Mellenby said brusquely. "Sigh your names. Not your full names," he added irritably. "Use the ones I gave you. Don't the two of you know any of the rules?"

The pages were empty: the first entry was of a 'Lord Mellenby', written in angular handwriting. I wrote 'Lord Grant' under it, and Lesley obliged with 'Lady May'. When we were done, Mellenby touched his fingers to the wet ink, murmuring something under his breath that didn't sound like Latin, then he grabbed my right wrist and pressed the wet ink to the underside. He did the same for Lesley.

"Right. Now you're both part of the dream." Mellenby glowered at the windows. "The Marinette must have sensed your arrival. Probably from the disturbance when you spoke to Thomas." 

"So this is Nightingale's happiest memory?" Lesley was looking around the gigantic, eerily empty hall doubtfully. "High school? It's kind of sad." 

I had to agree. Admittedly, I had gone to high school in Kentish Town, which was housed in an unlovely scattering of concrete buildings that perpetually smelled vaguely of a boys' locker room. Maybe the experiences didn't compute, though I wasn't too sure. High schools were high schools everywhere, if only because they were filled with brats. 

To my surprise, Mellenby actually stiffened, as though offended, and then after a while, he looked away. "It was a good place," he said finally, curtly. "This way."

"Library?" I asked, as he headed for the lefthand side. Mellenby glanced at me. "I've been here before. In the present."

"Ah. That explains why you were at the night gate." Mellenby nodded. "Yes. The library. I've kept my residence, as much as possible, to the areas where Thomas' memories seem to be the strongest. Safer zones, you see." 

Happy times in the library? Either the boss had hidden depths, or he was a massive Latin nerd. I suspected the latter. "Which zones are these?" Lesley asked.

"I probably haven't found all of them, but so far, the laboratories," Mellenby started rattling off a list, which included a laundry list of usual places where a nerd kid would like, including the greenhouse, of all places, and the reading room, and finally, Mellenby added a little doubtfully, "Part of the Great Hall. At the far end. I'm not so sure about that one. It doesn't feel happy, but it's a strong memory. I stumbled on it when I was being chased by Mama Marinette, when I first tried to shake Thomas out of the dream. She couldn't see me when I was against the wall."

I could guess about that one, but before I could explain, we were in the library. The shelves were stocked with books, leather-bound and uneven, hundreds and thousands of books, lining the huge floor-to-ceiling book cases. Walnut reading desks were interspersed between the shelves, with marble book stands marking space, and to my left was a polished oak counter, behind which an old man with a wispy gray cloud of hair peered at us from behind horn-rimmed glasses. 

Or rather, he stared at me and Lesley, unblinking, his shoulders hunching down, head bobbing closer, giving him the appearance of a dour, black vulture. I froze, expecting a giant owl to crash through the doorway at any minute, but Mellenby said, blandly, "My family friends, Mister Edmund. Visiting the school."

It was like watching a puppet unwind and turn human. Edmund huffed, adjusting his glasses, peering disapprovingly at Mellenby. "It's late for reading, young man. Curfew's started, don't you know."

"I forgot my notes, I won't be long, sir," Mellenby said promptly, and Edmund muttered something but turned back to shuffling library cards. As we ducked around book cases, going deeper into the library, Mellenby whispered, "That's one of the irregularities. Old Edmund's never up past curfew. Loves his nightcap of whisky. There are irregularities in some of the other rooms that I visited, as well. Paintings out of place, odd patterns on the carpets and such."

"What does that mean?" I asked, even as Lesley concluded, "You think that Nightingale's subconscious is trying to fight back?"

"Very good," Mellenby nodded approvingly at Lesley, which looked a little ridiculous coming from his short kid form. "The dream is stable, and for the most part, Mama Marinette is kept outside the school, unless the dream is… agitated. Then she finds an opening."

"So we're stuck?" I asked. "If we try to break the dream, she gets in. If we don't break the dream, we're stuck here."

"I've had my disagreements with Thomas," Mellenby said, which was probably the understatement of the century, "But he has a logical mind. There must be clues in all these irregularities. I've only managed to study the one in the library and the far wall. The rest are unfamiliar to me, I'm afraid: and I didn't want to linger too long in any room until I had catalogued as many safe areas as I could."

"You were heading out, though," Lesley pointed out.

"No. Thomas and his friends were going out drinking. I felt perhaps that there might be a clue at the night gate, and hid myself in their number, just in case the Marinette showed up the moment I stepped out of the school. I wasn't about to follow them out into town."

"What if Mama Marinette attacks Nightingale? Now that he's outside?" Lesley asked doubtfully. 

"She can't see him. He's the dreamer - to her, he's just part of the dreamscape. She didn't see him when she was hunting me; similarly, he can't see her. This doesn't mean that he's in any less danger than we are," Mellenby added, with a scowl, "But he's in less _immediate_ danger."

"So we just hang around?" I asked, disbelievingly. "And check through the other areas? What if we can't figure out his clues?"

"It's… how much time has passed, outside?" We told him, and Mellenby nodded. "That's good: time passes more quickly here. I'll show the other spaces to you in the morning, and then I suppose," here he pulled a face, "That we'll have to put our heads together and think of something."

That wasn't particularly reassuring, and Mellenby rolled his eyes when I mentioned it. "As I've told you, I haven't been on Papa Legba's road before," he said irritably. "I'm making a conjecture based on my experience with the Soft Paths. But thankfully, this is a surprisingly complete library, even for a dream. May I assume that you're both fairly competent in your Latin?"

Latin homework, even in a dream. I'm so sad, me.


	14. Chapter 14

XXV.

The dream was less creepy during the daytime, though Mellenby warned Lesley and I to be very careful, and if push came to shove, to head straight for the far wall in the Great Hall and wait for him there.

Overnight Latin homework hadn't done very much other than severely lower Mellenby's already low opinion of Nightingale's teaching methods - 'in my day we had to be passably fluent in Latin before being allowed to learn _forma_ ' - and prove that we didn't, in fact, grow tired in dreams.

"That's a plus," I told Mellenby. 

"No," He scowled at me, "Your brain's burning up energy outside. Keep at it too long and we won't need the Marinette to hunt us." 

"We could sleep," Lesley said, doubtfully.

"Or, we could figure out this dream as quickly as we can and get out of here," Mellenby suggested acerbically. "I have no wish of sharing any sort of immediate space, even dreamspace, with the Marinette for any longer than I have to."

We had to concur. 

Lesley wasn't too sure about splitting up, but Mellenby pointed out caustically that due to our pathetic grasp of Latin, he was going to have to shoulder the bulk of research, and in any case if we were careful we should be fine. We pointed out that the librarian had gone all horror film vulture on us even with Mellenby's ink fix in place, but he had waved us off with irritation.

Currently, we were in the greenhouse, which unfortunately was also not as cool as Harry Potter's. As far as we could tell, everything growing there were just normal herbs, nothing moving or snapping. It was a huge building, though, as large as the Great Hall, and Lesley decided to cover the ground from the north exit, myself from the school exit, and meet in the centre. 

I was studying a purple splash of orchids when behind me, Nightingale said, "Good morning, Lord Grant." 

Flinching nearly made me crash into the orchid lattice, and I only managed to sidestep it with sheer luck. Nightingale smiled at me when I turned around: he was dressed in a long jacket with tails, a stiff collared white shirt with a tie, and pressed trousers.

It was a little depressing. I guess I had thought that Real Hogwarts might have had a more interesting grasp of uniform than just having something obviously similar to the Eton suit. 

"Ah. Good morning, sir," I said uncomfortably. 

"I'm very sorry about the misunderstanding earlier."

"No, it was fine." I wished that I had watched Downtoun Abbey or something. Was my modern London English going to trip any alarms? "Um, don't you have classes?"

"Soon," Nightingale said, tilting his head. "Are you from London? You have a London accent, but not one that I can place."

Expecting a gigantic owl to crash through the greenhouse at any moment, I said, "I'm not from around here. But I had English tutors when I was growing up."

"Oh," Nightingale sounded pleased. "We don't often have visiting practitioners from outside London. May I ask which country you hail from?"

"Lady May and I are from the Temple and the Arch," I replied, trying to sound blasé, repeating Mellenby's instructions to us. Whatever it was, it worked - Nightingale blinked, and then his face filled with something that looked, scarily enough, like boyish hero worship. 

Okay. 

This was not going to creep me out. 

"You're hunting? In the school? Or recruiting?" Nightingale asked excitedly, then he caught himself short. "Forgive my questions. It's just that… I've heard of your order, of course. We all have."

"We're here to visit Lord Mellenby's son," I said cautiously. Mellenby's prompts hadn't gone this far, and I felt that I was on thin ice. "And use the library. Since we were in the area." It occurred to me that Lesley and I probably should have asked Mellenby more questions about his Secret Pass Phrase. 

"You're very young for the order," Nightingale noted, and actually blushed. "That is to say, I always thought that the adepts of the Temple and the Arch would be, ah, older practitioners."

"We have to start somewhere," I pointed out, now highly amused, despite myself. 

"Of… of course." Nightingale with a stammer, his blush deepening until his cheeks were tomato red. _Adorable_ , the thought came, then I tried to squish it. This was weird enough as it was without it turning into vaguely cradle snatcher territory. Still. Who would've known? Nightingale was a cute kid. 

Resolving to make sure that I had enough blackmail material to get us out of the Latin homework that Nightingale would inevitably slap on us if we got out of here, I asked, "Well, if you don't have class right now, why don't you walk with me? Tell me about the school."

Nightingale nodded eagerly. I tried not to stare. Mellenby's personality had survived intact, but there was nothing of melancholy or reserve in Nightingale's poise, as he followed me down the damp paths between the thickets of herbs, keeping up a slightly breathless commentary about the headmaster, the usual school day, his classes and such. It sounded just like high school to me, disappointingly, except that there was magic and Latin involved, and I was about to head over to retrieve Lesley when Nightingale abruptly stopped talking. 

"Hm. That's new," he said, blinking slowly. I glanced at him, curious, then jogged over to take a look at whatever it was. As far as I could tell, it was an old fashioned bird bath, one of those made out of stone, with a sheen of moss creeping up the gray cracks. The basin was a wide, shallow bowl about the length of my arm, full of water. 

I took a peek. My reflection was wearing the shirt and coat I had thrown on when I had left the Folly with Lesley to go to Brompton Road, and above me was a rusting framework of metal, most of the glass shattered or cloudy from age. Around me, the neat plots of herbs were out of control, thickened and thorny, dark from neglect. I swallowed and looked away. 

Nightingale, however, had shot one glance at the pool and had looked over at me curiously, as if wondering why I was shaken. Thankfully, before I could think of something to say, Lesley arrived, hooking her hand in my elbow. Nightingale glanced at her, then at her hand, and his face grew abruptly polite and reserved. 

"Oh, hello," Lesley was really gunning for a plummy BBC accent, prim and proper, playing 'Lady May' to the max. "You're David's friend from yesterday, aren't you? Pleased to meet you again."

They exchanged polite pleasantries, and then Nightingale excused himself and scooted off. Weird. I stared at his retreating back for a moment, then pointed Lesley over to the bird bath. She took a look, shuddered, and stepped back. 

"I think it's obvious that his subconscious is trying to tell himself that this is just a dream," she said, in a lowered voice. I agreed: the 'carpet patterns' that we had seen in the reading room had been furls that could only be caused by industrial vacuum cleaners - the same sort used by whoever Nightingale contracted at the present to keep the school in decent condition.

I wasn't sure how this was going to be very helpful. "So what do we do?" I asked doubtfully. "Push his face into the evidence? He already recognised something was out of place." 

Lesley shrugged. "Maybe if we keep looking. These rooms feel stronger," she added, gesturing at the greenhouse. "The stronger memories. If there has to be some sort of showdown," she added, uneasily, "I guess we can go for one of these rooms." 

I could see what she meant. The rooms that Mellenby had listed were sharper in focus, detailed, while some of the other rooms that we had peeked into were unfocused at the edges, like faded photographs. We hadn't tried to walk in those. 

"Let's check out the eastern wing," Lesley added, as we circled the greenhouse one more time and headed back towards the school. 

As we ambled back into the Great Hall, I was a little surprised by how noisy it was. Seniors and juniors were clattering past, probably heading to different classrooms, shouting at each other and shoving. They gave us a polite berth, though many openly stared, and I heard brief murmurs of 'Temple and the Arch' as we passed. Near the top of the massive left stairway, I spotted Nightingale watching us, and when he realized he had been caught, he blushed again and disappeared into the crowds. 

Lesley laughed softly from behind her veil as we forged towards the east wing. "Nice to see that some things don't change," she murmured.

"I think it's cute," I said blandly. 

"That's just wrong in so many ways," Lesley muttered, then added, thoughtfully, "D'you think it'll get us out of the homework? When we get out of here?" 

Great minds, thinking alike.

XXVI.

"Please tell me that your perambulations around the school have borne fruit," Mellenby said dourly, when we reconvened at the library after the bell signalling the end of the school day. "Having to relive lessons on intermediate magic has not been pleasant."

We told him about the various items that were out of place, and why they were out of place, as well as the fact that past half of the east wing, the doors just led out to an inky nothingness that we hadn't felt like exploring. "Of course," Mellenby noted impatiently, "As at this point of time, Thomas doesn't have the memory of the higher forms' living quarters. Hm."

"What is the Temple and the Arch?" I asked then, curious.

"Oh yes," Mellenby said sourly, "I'm beginning to regret that suggestion. The rumour's got out, and Thomas has been pestering me _all_ day for details. I would have been tempted to strangle him, if not for the possibility that it would draw the Marinette's attention."

It turned out that the Temple and the Arch were some sort of Secret Shadow Organisation of wizards who hunted rogue wizards. Sort of like the Aurors in Harry Potter, but probably less cool and with fewer owls and werewolves, just like the rest of the depressingly Real Life Hogwarts. The order was thought to be defunct in our time.

"And why's that?" Lesley asked.

"Almost all of them perished in the War," Mellenby said shortly. "I thought perhaps that it would allay suspicion, as the Temple and the Arch is notorious for picking its members from a variety of nationalities, gender and appearances. Most of their work is necessarily secret, after all."

"You thought that getting us to tell a kid that we were from some sort of real life White Council _wasn't_ going to attract interest?" I asked dryly. 

"There aren't any women or people of colour in the school, save those employed as servants. A less enlightened age, I should say, and magic was no different." Mellenby flicked his hand dismissively. "Thankfully, I've progressed well in my research. The dreamscape collapses safely if the dreamer manages to merge both consciousness. Ergo, we have to convert parts of the school into their modern forms."

"Going to be a hard call," I said, when Lesley glanced at me. "Seeing as I'm not sure where we can import all the dust from. And where we're going to dump all these books."

Mellenby looked visibly pained at the idea of destroying the library. "Every one of the 'safe' rooms that we've surveyed have had details that were off," he said finally, "Except the wall. What's different about that one?"

I told him about the names that Nightingale had carved on it, of all the practitioners who had fallen during the World Wars, and he grimaced. "Of _course_. Trust Thomas to make things utterly difficult." 

"We could recreate it," Lesley said doubtfully. "I guess." 

"Save that it's highly unlikely that Grant here remembers the names, let alone the order that they should be written," Mellenby sighed. "And my memory's not what it was. Still, perhaps symbolism counts enough. This year's roll of students and tutors should be in the headmaster's office. That'll be up the dexter staircase, down the corridor, and up a narrow spiral wooden stair." 

That threw me slightly until I recalled, further, that 'dexter' was Latin for 'right'. Funny how that worked. "We tried to go there earlier," Lesley said, before I could make a quip about laboratories and/or serial killers. "It was really unfocused. Dark."

"Then find the enrolment records. I'll need that to jog my memory. It should be in a green leather-bound book. Get out of there quickly once you have it," Mellenby instructed, irritated. "Run, if you have to, get to the far wall and wait there if you're chased."

"This is a great plan, boss," I said dryly.

He rolled his eyes. "Go."

The narrow spiral stair opened up into a corridor that seemed even narrower and darker than what I remembered. The windows were set on the right, and they were cloudy, tinted green, looking out to a blank emptiness of nothing. At the end of the corridor, the headmaster's office sat, the oak doors closed tight. 

"Okay." I breathed out. "I'll go." 

"We both go," Lesley corrected, already slipping out of her heeled shoes, pressing stockinged feet flat on the stairs. 

"I can run faster than you," I pointed out.

"But I spot details more quickly," she shot back, as she picked up her shoes. "D'you want to stick around here, arguing?"

She had a point. We crept down the corridor, Lesley bringing up the rear, trying not to get too close to the windows or to the doors. The corridor just seemed to grow darker and smell mustier the further we got, and although the temptation to bring up a werelight was getting stronger, we didn't. This was meant to be a stealth job. 

The door to the headmaster's office was unlocked. Bracing myself, I opened it as quietly as I could and peeked inside. Empty. I nodded at Lesley, nudging the door open, and we slipped in, feet sinking into the plush carpets. 

Werelights were unavoidable now. Lesley lit one up, checking out the room: it was larger than Nightingale's study in the Folly, and dominated by a huge walnut table, piled with scrolls and ledgers. An inkwell with a gold-trimmed quill, old-fashioned, sat next to a stack of blotting paper, held down by a silver paperweight of a rearing lion. Beside the cloudy glass window there was a huge framed portrait of a woman, blonde and pink-cheeked, her gentle smile warm from the soft tones of the picture. Most of the leftmost wall of the office was covered in books, two deep, and on the right were metal file cabinets. Two chairs faced the desk, overstuffed antiques, and behind the desk was a high-backed chair, fitted with leather. 

Lesley and I began to scan the shelves, then she prodded me and gestured at the door. With a nod, I settled down to keep watch instead, and tried not to hyperventilate. I had never really been a huge fan of the horror genre.

I don't remember, now, what exactly prompted me to check back over Lesley after I had stared at the corridor for a long moment, but what I saw very nearly made me wet myself. Ever been so terrified by something that you're frozen and can't speak? Yeah. 

From the portrait, the blonde woman was dragging herself out, her hair fallen over her heart-shaped face in a veil, her hands spider-thin, two-jointed and long, far too long for a human, scarred with new and old burn weals. She moved sinuously, silently, clawing her way across the wall towards Lesley, who was studying the shelves, oblivious. 

"I don't see it," Lesley murmured, breaking the silence, and that jolted me into action.

"Watch out!" I tossed a skinny grenade fireball at the blonde woman, who hissed at me, guttural and furious, swiping at the fireball with a clawed hand. She grabbed it, somehow, pulled it close like she was dangling a morsel, and swallowed it. It brightened up her face behind the veil before the magic went out, and I wish it hadn't. The heart-shaped, pretty face of the woman in the painting had been distorted, the eyes gone round and huge, the mouth too narrow and sharp, like a beak. 

" _Lesley-_!" 

"Almost! Almost!" Lesley scanned the shelves frantically, then yelped, "There!" as she dived for a book on the lower shelf, just in time to avoid a heavy swipe that would have taken off her head. I tossed a few more fireballs at the woman, but she caught them all, contemptuous, then she _screeched_ as I grabbed the silver lion and bounced it off her head. 

Lesley had scrambled to her feet, rounding the table and sprinting out of the door, a green bound book in her hands. I was close on her heels, trying to keep an eye behind us, then I stifled a yelp as Mama Marinette burst out of the door, her blonde woman form already contorting, growing bigger, her huge, scaly fingers gouging into the wood and brick walls as she scuttled towards us at frightening speed, her body growing pendulous and feathery, until her belly sunk almost to the ground. In the melting face of the blonde woman there was only a cruelly hooked beak and two saucer-sized eyes, huge with bloodlust. 

"Lily's boy," the Marinette hissed. "We are on Papa Legba's road now, Lily's boy!" 

Lesley hesitated, throwing one shoe, then the other, at the Marinette with surprising accuracy, and she hesitated, snarling, just enough time for us to tumble down the stairwell, bruised and tangled. I wrenched free at the bottom, dragged Lesley to her feet, and we sprinted down the corridors to the dexter stairway even as the stairwell we'd come down from erupted into splinters, collapsing as the Marinette forced her pendulous bulk through, shrieking and shedding feathers as she went. 

We managed to scramble down the dexter stairway, sprinting to the far wall, when Mama Marinette caught up with us with a huge bound, screeching in triumph. Lesley went down as a swipe caught her legs, tumbling and crying out, and I grabbed her by the arm, jerking her to her feet again and shoving her towards the wall. She was limping, a gouge taken out of her leg, and I grit my teeth, turning around.

Fireballs got batted aside, and an _Impello_ didn't even seem to sway her. I breathed out through my teeth and imagined, for a mad moment, the stone bird bath in the green house, out of sight, reached for it with _Transisto_ and _pulled_ -

It wouldn't have worked in real life, I don't think. Too heavy, too far. But in the dream, the bird bath popped into existence behind Mama Marinette, flying at the blithely high concussive speed of a hidden _Transisto_ _forma_ gone wrong. It smacked the Marinette off her feet with a shriek, shattering against her back, and I took advantage of her disorientation to sprint over to Lesley. We pressed our backs against the wall, hoping that Mellenby was right about its stealth capabilities, and held our breaths.

Mama Marinette shook off stone shards with a roar of rage, and whipped her gaze around, but to my painful relief she swept past us, scuttling in a full circle as she looked searchingly around the Great Hall. Hissing, she shook herself again, belly pressed down near the ground, for all appearances like a horrific bastard child of an owl and a burned spider, then she surged forward towards the main door, melting _through_ it, and was gone. 

As we watched, the gouges she had left on the carpets and ground disappeared, and the shattered stone bird bath shimmered and was gone.

" _Fuuuck_ ," Lesley let out her breath in a soft whoosh, hugging the book tightly to her chest. I could only nod, pressing my skull back against the wood panelling. We didn't dare to move for a long time.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Actually, instead of going day by day, I'm just going to release all my drafts, and edit again over the next few days :O Enjoy!

XXVII.

We left Mellenby with the green book of names to sort out, and tried to help out with the research. While Lesley read up on the Soft Paths, I was researching Mama Marinette - or trying to find the book written on the _lwa_ in the huge library without getting lost.

I also tried not to get too close to any portraits. Just because. 

The adrenaline rush from fetching the book - and sneaking back to the library, expecting to be jumped by a spider owl monster at any moment - hadn't yet died out, and I was feeling restless and jumpy. So it didn't help when there was a soft, "Hello," when I was ambling past a couple of book cases. 

Somehow, I managed not to yell, but it was a near thing. "Isn't it curfew?" I hissed, when I turned towards the shelves and recognised Nightingale. 

"Not yet," he replied, and looked concerned. "Did I startle you?"

"I thought that the library was going to be quiet at this point of time." I tried to slow my heart rate.

"Only after curfew." Nightingale gestured at the books that he was holding in his arms. "I was catching up with my homework."

"Not going drinking and partying in town?"

"Ah," Nightingale's lips curled lightly, "Not so often. The examinations are approaching."

"Well, uh," I breathed out, as I managed to calm down, "Don't work too hard, kid." 

That got a scowl that was a little familiar. "I'm not a child," Nightingale said, slightly offended, "I am in the sixth form."

"Sure," I said, trying not to laugh, but this made his scowl deepen. "Sorry, it's just," I made a helpless gesture, "It feels like forever since I was last in school."

"Oh, of course." Nightingale sobered up. "Are you… are you looking for a book? I can help you." 

I gave him the weird as hell library reference number from Edmund, and Nightingale confidently led me down a few rows of books. We found the reference book in no time - Latin, damn it all - and Nightingale was smiling again, hesitantly, as he peeked at the cover. "The _Lwa_ , Lord Grant? Planning a trip to New Orleans?"

"It's in the cards," I said, trying to sound as world-weary as I could. I think I pulled it off - Nightingale actually looked envious. 

"It must be an interesting life, working for the Temple and the Arch. Do you travel often?"

"More than I like," I said wryly. Usually to the past. None of it good. "And it's less fun than you think."

"But interesting?"

"It's always interesting," I agreed. 

"Ah," Nightingale let out a deep sigh. "If only…! But my father has been chosen to be Master at the Folly, and it's quite likely that I will be Master after him. I doubt that I'll ever have cause to leave London." 

_You will_ , I thought silently, trying not to think of the wall with the names, _And it's going to scar you forever, you poor bastard._ "You'll be surprised," I said finally. "And in any case, you'll do good work at the Folly." 

"You sound so convinced," Nightingale smiled tentatively. This was so wrong, I knew, as I tried not to stare. But the kid was really damned cute. "Very little actually gets done in the Folly that isn't administrative in nature, Lord Grant." 

"Still useful," I pointed out, and then, unable to help myself, added, "You'll be making a Valuable Contribution."

Nightingale laughed, sounding startled as he did so. "I've heard that before, somewhere," he murmured, and as I froze, listening for owl screams or skittering fingertips, added, "Would you be staying for long in London, sir? My father would be delighted to have you and Lady May over for tea."

"Not as long as we'll like, I'm afraid," I hedged. I wasn't sure how far the dream would go, if we were packed off to the Folly. "Uh, thanks for your help with the book." 

"Not a problem," Nightingale flashed me another smile that was, I realized with some horror and amusement, a little coy. "If I could help you with anything else, please let me know." 

Yep. Enough blackmail material. I retreated quickly to Lesley, who was seated within sight of Mellenby, poring over a book with a dictionary in another hand. "Our boss was a little minx," I whispered to her, as I sat down, and she glanced at me, then at up to where Nightingale was picking his way through to the librarian's counter, and let out a soft snort of nervous laughter.

XXVIII.

It took Mellenby until daybreak to sort out the names, and even so, he wasn't entirely sure if he was correct. "I was there at Ettersburg," he said finally, "But I didn't linger afterwards in the hospital."

"What really happened?" Lesley asked, in a hushed voice, as we were picking our way back to the Great Hall, keeping instinctively to the shadows. 

"Hm? Thomas never told you?" Mellenby eyed us both in mild surprise. "No, I suppose that he wouldn't. Ettersburg… was a massacre. A tragedy. Magic never really recovered. That's why we need Miss Abigail. Now, more than ever." 

We reached the far wall, carrying the tools and the stepladders that Mellenby had 'liberated' from the servants' quarters when we were busy having our tango with Mama Marinette. We noted that the only thing Lesley and I had ever carved in our lives had probably been the odd potato or two during art class in high school, and Mellenby had shrugged. "It's just symbolism."

Mellenby had split us up for now, with Lesley starting on the pre-World War Two casualty list, and myself starting on the far, far more numerous World War Two lists. He had been hazy on the battles, but the lists were probably the best that we could manage now, and I climbed up on the stepladder, having opted for a small round-necked wood carving knife, like Lesley. We didn't have time to mess around with chisels and gougers. 

My handwriting was never really any good even on paper, and on wood it was worse. I was making a hash of the neat letterings that Nightingale had made in real life, but what the hell. It was the thought that counted, right? We didn't even have the dates of death - Mellenby simply couldn't remember most: it had been decades, after all, and there were just so many of the fallen. 

I had worked my way down to Kastelli, 1941, when behind us, Nightingale asked, "What _are_ you doing?" 

I risked a glance backwards. Nightingale was pale, his fists clenched, his gaze darting between Lesley and I, at the butcher job of scratches that we were doing on the panelling. "Ah-" I began, but Mellenby cut me off.

"Keep carving, Grant. Thomas, this is a patch of routine maintenance," Mellenby said smoothly. The man was an utter bastard, but he could carry off total bullshit better than Seawoll on a good day. 

" _Maintenance_?" Nightingale asked, incredulous, "It looks like vandalism to me." 

I had to agree, especially when I tried to get the 'O' on Horace Green-way's name correct and ended up scratching it until it looked like a lopsided polygon. Oops. 

"So it appears," Mellenby said, just as smoothly. "Don't you have Advanced Latin in five minutes?"

"So do _you_ ," Nightingale shot back. 

"I'll be along shortly," Mellenby assured him, totally unconvincingly, because Nightingale narrowed his eyes, frowning at the wall again.

I scratched a jagged 'Y', finishing Green-way's surname, and was about to work on his date of death when Nightingale said, quietly, "This… this isn't right."

"What isn't?" Mellenby asked.

"The names. That's… that's not the first one," Nightingale's hand shook a little as he pointed at the first name I had carved. "The… the first name was Jason Perry. You remember Perry, don't you?" he turned on Mellenby, his fists clenched again, "We used to call him Sailorboy, because he was whistling that tune all the time. You remember, don't you?"

"No," Mellenby said quietly, his stare intense. "I didn't know him that well. What else is wrong, Thomas?"

The walls shook, the chandeliers clattering and clinking, and I hung on to my ladder, looking around wildly. Oblivious, Nightingale had taken a deep breath, circling closer to the wall, staring at it, troubled. "There were… there were a lot more. A lot more names." He pressed his fingers against the wood, then harder, until his knuckles were white. "A word. A place. _Ettersburg_." 

The great doors blew in, with a howl of a storm and the beating of gigantic wings, and a hunched, tall woman strode in, tall enough that she had to crawl to fit through, unfolding herself as she cleared the door, almost on eye-level with myself, perched on the stepladder. Her hair covered all of her face except a pale slit of flesh, and her hands were covered in fresh burn scars, her dress a continuous sleeve of owl feathers. 

"Found you," she whispered, and I could see the brief, white gleam of serrated teeth. "Found _all_ of you."

"Get down from there," Mellenby said from clenched teeth, "And when I give the signal, _run_. Head in different directions. I'll go to the greenhouse. May, go to the reading room. Grant, head to the library."

We scooted down the ladders as quickly as we could, and Mellenby was tracing something in the air, muttering under his breath as the Marinette shook herself, laughed throatily, and stepped closer, shaking the ground. I tensed, about to run once Mellenby signalled, then I flinched when behind me, Nightingale's fist slammed into the wall. 

"Sir!" Lesley hissed, startled, but Nightingale ignored her, his jaw clenched as he hit the wall again, hard enough to bloody his knuckles and leave a stain on the wood. I grabbed his wrist, jerking him back, and as he struggled, thrashing, his face wet, crying out something in Latin that was raw with all the bottled pain and anguish of decades of solitude and regret, the bloodstain… _bloomed_. 

It splashed outwards from the mark, spreading out over the wall, a flat, black stain at first that abruptly gathered and turned intricate, sealing themselves over our scratches and changing them, turning into the neat grooves and serifs of Nightingale's carvings. The names wrote themselves into the wall, in columns upon columns, thousands of hours of grief written into the wood, one man's memory, a blood-gift to the dead.

A blood-gift. Of course.

"Mama Marinette," I called out, still cautiously holding Nightingale tightly, though he had stopped struggling now, holding his face in his hands instead. "This is still the blood country. A river country, grown old from the death of her sons. Do you see?" I could feel Mama Thames' touch, and this time, I didn't fight it. "Thousands of her sons. Their blood is her blood, and ours. Their deaths are old deaths, and ours. How do the new ones taste, the thin ones that you've had on the gray earth?" 

Mama Marinette hissed, rocking from side to side, clutching at her arms, while Mellenby shot me a startled look that quickly turned calculating. 

"Yes…" she whispered. "The new deaths. Not-human, no, not Papa Legba's sons. Another's. Another's. Their deaths are thin and sharp. Not enough. Not enough. But enough to set Mama Marinette on the roads, Lily's boy. Enough to set you here in her grasp, with your friends, yes. Your friends-"

"Enough to set us here," Lesley said, her eyes a little glassy, "And you have hunted us, Mama, you have blooded us." She hitched up her skirt, where the slash that the Marinette had dealt her when we were running to the far wall was still scabbing up. "Your deal is complete. You were asked to hunt us, were you not? So you have." 

There was a long, breathless moment, then the Marinette began to laugh, a screeching, hooting laugh, dissonant and harsh, but there was amusement there, malicious and eternal. Mama Marinette would carve both sides of the deal if she could with her talons. "What do you propose, Lily's boy?" she whispered, rocking forward and back, her long nails trailing on the ground. "What do you want from me for the blood of the old sons?"

Nightingale struggled weakly, but I muttered a silent apology to my boss and clamped my hand over his mouth. "Ah," I began, blinking, "Letting us all go would work." 

"And," Mellenby added blandly, as though he negotiated with murderous _lwa_ spirits all the time, "Take the bokors' magic. Cleave them of it."

"Yes," Mama Marinette whispered, eyeing the wall avidly. "It will be done. Go. Go. _It will be done._ " 

The world beyond the doorway to the Great Hall turned a milky white, and swallowing, we circled around the Marinette towards it. Mellenby looked strained, as though he wasn't sure whether we were walking headlong into another trick, but when Lesley stepped through, he squared his shoulders and followed her, with a low hiss of breath. Nightingale twisted wildly in my grasp as we got to a step before the door, but I got my weight behind me and shoved him through. Then I took a deep breath, grit my teeth, and stepped into the void.

I woke up with my cheek mashed on carpet. Blinking and groaning, I rolled onto my back, just in time to look up into a row of pink, worried faces. 

"'ere, he's come to," one of the men called.

"The girl's waking up, as well," someone else said, to my left, and I groggily allowed people to manhandle me into a chair. The world lurched, and I fought nausea, gratefully draining the cup of water that someone pressed into my hands. 

It took a while for my vision to refocus, then I saw that we were still in the reception area of Brompton Road Station, surrounded by what looked like naval cadets and admin staff. One of the cadets passed me my warrant card, looking apologetic. At the bench, Lesley was waking up - then she shot awake as she realized that she didn't have her mask on, grasping wildly until someone pushed it into her hands. She turned her ruined face away, pulling it on with jerky movements, and her voice rattled into a low sob.

Another naval cadet tentatively approached her, with her warrant card. "Constable May," he said, his voice and face absolutely polite, as though he hadn't seen her melted cheeks and nose, her formless chin. I could have hugged him, if I could move. 

Our phones were bust, but I didn't feel like doing anything anyway. Once I felt like I could move, I stumbled over to sit next to Lesley, hugging her against me, and the naval cadets milled around awkwardly for a moment before the receptionist shooed them away and came back with a couple of cups of warm tea and biscuits. We sat, drank tea, ate biscuits, and waited for the circus to show up.

XXIX.

Frank Cafferty drove us home in the Jag, dropped us off, and presumably got picked up by his paramilitary friends. I was too tired to notice, trudging up into the Folly behind Lesley and Nightingale. Abby was waiting for us, sitting on the stairs with a book on her knees Peggy on her shoulder; she let out a whoop when she saw us, dropping the book, displacing Peggy and rushing over, giving Lesley a hug, then me, then, to Nightingale's obvious surprise, she hugged him too.

"Welcome home," she said firmly, as though she had been practicing it for hours, and hugged Lesley again. Molly peeked out at us from behind the stairs, her hands pressed to her mouth, then she ducked away again quickly as Toby wagged his tail at us and barked. 

"Glad to be home," I ruffled her thick hair, and she grinned at me, following Lesley up the stairs. I was about to head up after her, when Nightingale cleared his throat. 

Ah, well. I turned around, keeping my expression neutral. He stared at me, tired and uncertain, looking older than normal, and tried to say something, before hesitating, and swallowing his words. I waited for a moment, then decided to take pity on him, taking a step closer, then another, then he pulled me tightly into his arms, holding me close. I patted his shoulders awkwardly, waiting until the trembling stopped, then carefully turned, tipped up his chin, and pressed a careful kiss over his mouth. 

"What did she take?" Nightingale asked finally, red-eyed, quiet. "I can't - what did she take, Peter?"

"I think she fed on your pain," I guessed, uncertain. "I don't think she ate their souls or something, if that's what you're getting at. Wherever your friends are, they've gone." _They were gone a long time ago_ , I wanted to add. _And you've got to learn to let them go._

"I… yes." Nightingale shuddered, and leaned forward, brushing a kiss over my forehead, then my eyes, then my mouth. "You shouldn't have come. I told you not to follow." 

I sensed that this probably wasn't the best time to try Abby's glib excuses, so I said nothing, mouthing over his jaw instead, nipping until he leaned back over for a deeper kiss, one of his desperate ones, raw with what was left of his grief, old wounds sawn open. I let him hold me, giving back as much as I could, holding his cheeks in my palms until the kisses gentled and his hands stopped shaking.

"Your school," I said finally, my voice a little hoarse, and he tensed. " _So_ not like Hogwarts."

"Someday I'm going to have to watch this film that all of you keep referring to," Nightingale murmured, his hands creeping up tentatively over my back.

I tried to picture it. Happy families in the carriage house, with rented DVDs, pizza, a dog and a monster chicken. Somehow, it wasn't as crazy as I thought it would be. It felt _right_ , like a piece slotting into place, a memory for us to hold on to, to light our way whenever we need to find our feet. I pressed a kiss over his mouth, and his hands curled up to my arms. For now, for ever, we were home.


	16. Chapter 16

epilogue.1.five days

The problem with inviting a superior commanding officer to watch a film with you is that old habits tend to die hard. DCIs become DCIs because of their opinions, after all: opinions direct resources, make conjectures and close cases - they're trained to develop and make free with it in the presence of lower police life forms.

It was funny at first, with the 'Why in the world would a child with natural power be left with evidently cruel foster parents?' and 'Usually trust funds operate to release their contents to a child only when they reach the age of majority', but when Nightingale started commenting on Quidditch, Abby shot me a very long-suffering look from the other side of the couch.

"Uh, could I have a word, sir?" I murmured. Nightingale shot me an odd look, but followed me outside quietly enough. He arched a questioning eyebrow once we were at a safe distance, and I said, dryly, "The thing about fantasy films is that they usually require some suspension of disbelief. If it's a _kid's_ film-"

"It's for children?" Nightingale interrupted, sounding surprised. 

"You mean you can't tell? What with the candy shops, the eleven year old kids, the wands and broomsticks and stuff?"

"There is rather a great deal of gratuitous violence," Nightingale pointed out, sounding offended, confirming my suspicion that the last time Nightingale had seen a movie, films were probably still called 'cinematographs' and the most exciting thing that happened would be a saucy flash of an ankle. "And besides, is that truly the modern idea of a school? It's remarkably unsafe."

I had to concede this point, particularly since a kid had gotten his leg broken in the first year flying class, there were violent monsters held within the school itself, the school's main sport involved flying at deadly heights and at light speed, and the Hogwarts idea of detention seemed to be sending eleven year old kids into a dangerous forest. 

"It _is_ a film," I pointed out, trying not to grin. "Kids like violence. And fun. If it's violence and fun together, it's a winning formula."

Nightingale seemed to give this due thought, then he said, cautiously, "In moderation, I suppose certain aspects of the film could be put to use." 

"Really?" I tried not to obviously perk up. Quidditch?

"That visibly striking uniform…" Nightingale trailed off at the look on my face, and actually started to grin. I kissed him before it could turn into a smirk, for the sake of my sanity. We stumbled back into the Folly, somehow, navigating the door and the steps. By the time we got to Nightingale's room, I was glad that Molly had remained in the carriage house; Nightingale's jacket was somewhere on the stairs and I was missing one of my shoes, pulling at the knot of Nightingale's tie as we tumbled into bed. 

It's not really as graceful as ha'penny novels make it seem; I nearly got a knee in my stomach as we took a moment to disentangle ourselves. Undeterred by a wayward elbow that had knocked his jaw, Nightingale was already licking his way down my throat, moaning as I got my hand into his hair and tugged lightly. 

Nightingale was reluctant to let up, and it was only after I got a thigh between his legs that he jerked back with a low gasp. I pulled my shirt off, and tried to start unbuttoning his, difficult when Nightingale was keeping his mouth busy - God - on my shoulders and neck, and by the time I got all the buttons worked out he was shifting impatiently downwards, grazing his teeth on my skin. I might have made an embarrassing sound at that, because he glanced up, his eyes hot with lust; his mouth crept back down over a nipple with a rough lick, and _Christ_ but that shouldn't feel so good.

"There are tricks," Nightingale murmured, in between obviously trying to drive me insane, "That can be used in bed."

It took me a moment to focus. "Is _that_ why Abby could see your _signare_ on that floor?"

Nightingale's ears turned a little pink, and his chest shook against me in a quiet laugh. "God, don't remind me. You have no idea how mortified I was." 

I probably did have some idea, but I wasn't really in a mood for playing around; again I could feel that urgency when I looked down over at Nightingale, at his lopsided grin, hot when disheveled with desire. "Maybe next time," I said roughly, and Nightingale nodded, kissing down further, until he reached my belly; ticklish, I stifled a yelp as he pressed his tongue against my navel. 

When he reached the hem of my jeans, though, he stopped. "Peter," Nightingale cupped me through the denim, causing an involuntary roll of my hips, "Would you let me - with my mouth?"

"There's really no need to be so polite when you're offering someone a blowjob," I commented dryly, and grinned when Nightingale grimaced. Dirty talk was probably never going to be on the table, at least not on his end. I pushed my hips firmly against his hand, and he seemed to take the hint, unzipping my jeans and drawing out my cock from my boxers. I wasn't fully hard yet - still a little weird - but when Nightingale licked his way up to the tip: _yeah_. This was going to be great.

Nightingale was a bit out of practice: there was an early accident with teeth, but after that - fuck - the way he kept trying to take in more until he choked, using his hand on the rest, moaning with his throat tight around my cock like there was nothing else he'll rather be doing… oh _fuck_. I wasn't going to last long. 

I had my hands twisted on the sheets, trying not to buck, but when Nightingale's free hand crept restlessly down to jerk himself off, I couldn't help it. He took it though, flushed and groaning, his tongue pressing hard under my flesh and I was knocked clean over the edge, crying out something garbled and wet.

Sated and dazed, I watched as Nightingale swallowed - the hell - licked up the rest and hauled himself back up the bed, wiping his soiled hand gingerly on the sheets. Between the two of us, we kicked the rest of our clothes off the bed, and curled up, his arm tucked under my shoulders. 

"Wait-" Nightingale began, his voice a rasp, as I leaned up to kiss him. The taste wasn't entirely pleasant, I decided, as I tentatively licked into his mouth, but the strangled noise that Nightingale made more than made up for it. 

"I'm beginning to think," I murmured, when I caught my breath, "That you were so annoying during the film just to get me up here alone, sir." 

Nightingale shook briefly against me in silent laughter, then he kissed my forehead. "An interesting accusation."

"There's also nothing wrong with Quidditch," I added.

"I fail to see the point of its scoring system," Nightingale muttered, ever a Rugby man, "What's the point of having two balls in play, one of which will end the game in favour of one of the teams due to its huge score advantage?"

"I guess," I said doubtfully, "Since a quaffle goal is ten points, and you can only end the game by catching the Snitch, you can actually score more than a hundred and fifty point lead with the quaffle, so that even if the other team catches the Snitch you're still going to win."

"You seem to have given this more thought than your _Transisto_ practice," Nightingale noted, though he pressed another kiss lower down, between my brow, and I rolled my eyes, even as I tugged his arm over and pulled up the sheets.

epilogue.2.five years

A freshly minted PC usually did the Walk of Neblett alone, or with her peers, and as such, Abby glared at us and insisted that we stay Out. In the Reception Area. Or Else. Lesley had wandered off to catch up with some friends, leaving me to ensure that DCIs Nightingale and Seawoll played nice. I tried glaring silently at her, but she had blithely ignored a ranking officer.

"You made Sergeant," Seawoll noted, taking a breather and eyeballing me.

"Yes, sir," I said mildly. Seawoll grunted, glancing over to Nightingale.

"Lesley's better."

"She will also make Sergeant in time," Nightingale said blandly. "It's partly a question of seniority. And Peter has his strengths." 

I kept my face straight as Seawoll shot me a patently disbelieving look, then he snorted and looked back to Nightingale, about to launch into a new tirade, when the door to the corridor leading to Neblett's office creaked open, and Abby peeked out.

"Um," she edged out, looking shiny and squeaky new in her uniform, pressed to razor edges by Molly in the morning, "I got Economic and Specialist Crime." 

"High five," I offered, and we did a solemn victory clap. Seawoll scowled furiously at Nightingale, glowered at me for good measure, gruffly shook Abby's hand, and stormed off, muttering something under his breath. 

"Someone's disappointed," Abigail said mildly. 

"You should be honored," I told her with mock severity, "It isn't often that two DCIs have a catfight over who gets to have a lowly PC in their division."

"Alexander was never going to have his petition answered," Nightingale shrugged, serene now that everything was Going His Way. I wasn't fooled: I had sensed a little tension when Abigail had gone in to see Neblett. "Congratulations."

"Now what?" Abigail asked, as we headed out of the building, "Do I get to drive the Jag?"

"Absolutely not." Nightingale looked scandalised at the thought. "Do you even know how to drive?" 

"I got a licence, dunt I?" Abigail pointed out: she didn't push out her lower lip, but it was a near thing. "I got it when you and Peter were off in the Fair Lands," she added, helpfully. "Lesley helped me." 

Not a memory that I really wanted to treasure. I tuned out the bickering as we got into the Jag, and by the time Nightingale started up the engine, she had worn him down into agreeing that she should, at least, pass the Road Safety Test first. 

"Stephanopoulos wants us to take a look at an incident in Shepherd's Bush," Nightingale was saying, as he turned into traffic, "Since Peter and I are tied up with the Grosvenor matter and Lesley's assisting in Piccadilly, you'll be working with the DI by yourself."

"Really? Awesome!" Abby grinned. Nightingale had expedited her trainee period, but she had still spent about a year or so walking the streets like the rest of the pre-PC lower life forms. Watched. Like a hawk. It was a weird arrangement, and Mellenby had bitched and moaned through all of the year about the security breaches, but we had survived with only fairly minor incidents and property damage. 

"It's a crime scene," I told her dryly, "You're not meant to be excited."

"Why not?"

"The novelty's going to wear out really quickly," I said, with mock sadness, and leaned over to pat her hand. "Then you'll be as jaded and cynical as the rest of us." 

She pulled a face at me and plastered herself back against the window. I supposed that I didn't really blame her. For all that nothing had seemed to have happened when Abby turned eighteen, it had marked a very obvious sort of unwritten ceasefire, as though everyone was waiting to see what Abby was going to do next. Instead of declaring war on her enemies, she had signed up with the police. I think everyone was still trying to work out what that meant. 

More importantly, Mellenby and Nightingale had stopped acting like really obnoxious helicopter parents. This was Abby's first case out by herself. 

We dropped her off, and she only gave us a half wave before she was scooting up to Stephanopoulos at the edge of the taped off scene. They didn't high five, but it was close. 

"I actually think that this is going to work out," I told Nightingale, as we turned back into traffic. 

"It's a bad habit to draw conjectures on a 'gut feeling'," Nightingale replied reproachfully, though he was wearing a faint smile as he said this. In revenge, I reached over and put my hand high on his thigh, and he glowered at me. I grinned, inching my fingers up higher, until I was pressing him down against the seat, making him stiffen and gasp. I smirked. Still a little sore from the morning, poor dear.

Nightingale pushed my hand away. "We're _working_ , Peter." 

"I see that, sir," I smiled innocently, because it's been five years, and no decent copper wouldn't have learned all of a person's trigger buttons by then. Nightingale muttered something in Latin, pulled over, and dragged me over for a kiss, scandalising a passing old lady on her walker. I had my hand wound tight on his tie, a laugh curling warm in my throat, to match the smile I could feel pressed against me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone for reading! :) Think there aren't any more problems, but I'll keep editing. Looking forward to the release of Broken Homes at the end of the July!

**Author's Note:**

> If you'll like to discuss ficbunnies, I an be found on twitter @manic_intent :)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Bear with me](https://archiveofourown.org/works/891349) by [sentimental_fool](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sentimental_fool/pseuds/sentimental_fool)




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